


Witching Hour

by veganstastelikeveggies



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veganstastelikeveggies/pseuds/veganstastelikeveggies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought Salem Ellis was just another serial bomber, a terrorist with a particularly warped mind. Placed in Arkham Asylum on a plea of insanity, strange and unexplained things begin to happen; but by the time the authorities figure it out, it's too late. The Salem Witch is unleashed on Gotham City, ready to deliver her message in fire and blood, and nothing, not even Batman, can stand in her way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incarceration

**Author's Note:**

> Story begins a year and a half before the events of Arkham Asylum and ends with the events of Arkham Knight. Primarily set in the Arkhamverse, but elements of comic book canon and animated features like Assault on Arkham are incorporated.
> 
> Warnings for language, graphic violence, torture, attempted rape, alcohol use, sexual content, and extreme anti-religious views.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated!

_**This is Vicki Vale reporting on site at Arkham Asylum. We're here waiting for the arrival of Salem Ellis, the serial bomber responsible for the most recent chaos in Gotham. Ellis, who was apprehended six months ago, was responsible for no less than thirty-two deaths in the past year, including sixteen people killed in the explosion at Divinity Church in February. Our experts were certain that Ellis would be sentenced to death row at Blackgate Prison, but in an unusual turn of events she was declared insane and slated to be sent to Arkham instead. According to a recent poll, most people disagree with this sentencing. As you can see behind me, many of Gotham's citizens have turned up outside of the asylum to protest Ellis's incarceration here.** _

_**Oh! A Gotham City police cruiser was just spotted driving up to the asylum gates. Stay tuned!** _

She was watching the crowd as they approached, how they all rushed to either side of the road in a mass, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Reporters and men with TV cameras shoved their way to the front while guards armed with rifles kept them back. A few signs calling for another trial were waved about by civilians behind them. Aaron Cash glanced in his rearview mirror to gauge her reaction; most of these sickos lived for the attention. A few were frightened by it. Her profile, with its high cheekbones and sharp nose, was oddly neutral.

"I bet you're loving this," he remarked as they drove through the asylum's gates. She turned to look at his reflection in the mirror and she smirked. Cash felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine as he met her gaze. Her eyes were two different colors, and it made the unnerving way she looked at him even worse.

"Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame," she said before looking back out the window. Arkham Asylum loomed dark and foreboding in front of them, a collection of Gothic buildings in the shadow of a great clock tower. Behind them, in the distance, the skyline of Gotham City rose up with the jagged peaks of skyscrapers. The crowd pressed in closer as Cash put his police cruiser in park. Cameras flashed in a staccato beat as the paparazzi vied for a shot of one of the deadliest serial bombers in Gotham's recent history.

"Damn vultures," Cash grumbled as he exited the vehicle. Salem took a deep breath and readied herself. The sun dazzled her eyes after the dimness of the cruiser's tinted windows, and she was temporarily blinded as Cash hauled her out of the backseat. She blinked owlishly to clear the colored spots from her vision as she was half-led, half-drug up a short flight of stairs to a pair of large double doors. Though she could only make out vague forms, she was aware of the crowd pressing in closer, their voices a confused torrent of reporters' questions and civilians' angry shouts. Then, silence as the doors closed behind them, shutting out the noise and the light with a definitive _bang_.

Her eyes adjusted and she was greeted by ascetic surroundings. It smelled...clinical, almost too clean and sterilized to be real. Beneath her orange Blackgate uniform, her skin prickled into goosebumps from the chill. A desk was directly in front of her, the female clerk protected from the outside world by a metal grate and tempered glass. Metal doors without handles stood to both the left and the right of the window. Cash prodded her towards the glass.

"What do we have here?" the girl asked in a totally disinterested tone. Her voice sounded robotic as it came from an unseen speaker.

"A real piece of work," Cash replied. "Last name's Ellis." The girl clicked a few keys on her keyboard and scanned the computer screen. She scowled, then smacked the side of the monitor. "Sorry, the computer's acting screwy," she said. No one noticed the smirk that flashed ever so briefly across Salem's features. Then, looking at the prisoner, "Salem Ellis?" Salem inclined her head. "So you're the one that blew up the cathedral and killed all those people. Sheesh." The receptionist pressed a button and a buzz issued from behind the left door. Two rather large orderlies came out and each took one of her arms.

"We'll take it from here Cash," one said. "C'mon, inmate, time to take you through processing." Salem inwardly groaned. Processing was always the worst.

The first step was disinfection. The orderlies ushered her into a tiled room that looked more like a gas chamber than a shower. They uncuffed her long enough to get her out of her orange uniform and underneath a shower head. The two of them exchanged glances when they saw the jagged marks raking down her back, and she instinctively turned away from them. Water that was almost too hot dumped on her, turning her pale skin pink. When she was deemed sufficiently clean, the water shut off and the orderlies approached her with rough, thin towels. They dried her off then took her into another room where a blank-faced doctor stood with green latex gloves on his hands. I hate this part, she thought. He checked every cavity that she could possibly hide something in: her ears, her mouth, up her nose...even her privates. Finding no contraband hidden in her person, he waved them along into another room, where she was given her Arkham Asylum uniform. This time it was khaki and had the asylum logo stitched onto the right breast. When she pulled the pants on, she looked down and saw that the hems barely grazed her ankles. The orderly who had given her the uniform rifled through the stacks of the "ladies sizes" but couldn't find any that were longer. They handed her the smallest man's size they could find, but they were baggy and hung low on her hips. The shoes they gave her had no laces and their plastic soles squeaked across the floor as she walked.

Into another room, this one with a table, a scale, and a doctor with a clipboard. The doctor waved at the orderlies and told them to wait outside. When the door closed behind them, he pulled out a voice recorder from his shirt pocket and gestured for her to come closer.

"Medical examination of patient number 4667," he said into the microphone. "Patient's name is Salem Maria Ellis. Born March 16, 1981, aged 32." He positioned her with her back against a wall that had a measuring stick set on it. "Patient is exactly 5'11 and weighs..." He guided her onto the scale. "...127 lbs. Miss Ellis, were you aware that you're considered underweight for your size?"

Salem said nothing in reply.

"Besides being technically underweight, patient appears to be in otherwise excellent physical condition. Hair color is red and patient's eyes are heterochromatic. Right eye is brown, while left eye is blue." There was a click and he brought a beam of light up into her pupils. "Patient appears to be partially blind in left eye; pupil fails to dilate at the same rate as the right." He checked her scalp for lice and the insides of her mouth for sores. He inspected her forearms and saw no signs of self-harm, until he got to her hand.

"My god," he breathed into his recorder. "Patient has heavy scarring on the back of her left hand. The scars are raised, indicating multiple lacerations, perhaps from a knife or similar object. Patient's fingers have limited mobility, possibly due to improperly healed tendons." The doctor narrowed his eyes and brought her hand closer to his face. "There appears to be a...brand of sorts beneath the scar tissue. It is in the shape of a crucifix." Salem snatched her hand away from him. "Miss Ellis, did you do this to yourself?"

"You're not my shrink," she snapped, rubbing at the scars as if his touch had burned her. The doctor, startled by her reaction, thankfully decided to drop the subject. He went on to take her pulse, listen to her heart, and draw some blood, then pressed a button to signal the orderlies that he was done. Only one of them came back into the room; the other was replaced by Officer Cash. They hauled her out of the room and down a dimly-lit hallway. They stopped at a large door and waited. A beam of light appeared and scanned them up and down.

"If I had it my way you'd be in Blackgate awaiting the death penalty," Cash said. "Thirty-two people are dead because of you."

"You can't execute the mentally unwell, Officer Cash," Salem replied. He grunted.

"I'm not convinced you _are_ mentally unwell," Cash returned. "I just think you're evil." Salem looked at him, one corner of her mouth cocked in a smirk.

"Humanity doesn't exist in such vacuous absolutes, Officer," she said. "Truly, what is good and what is evil?" The beam of light disappeared and there was a beep.

"Cut the philosophy lesson," Cash snapped. "By the time this is over, you'll wish you were in Blackgate, Ellis. Trust me on that." The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a long hallway with cells on either side. One by one, expectant faces appeared at the glass doors. When they saw her, many of them began to shout. Salem saw that out of all the faces she could see, there wasn't a single woman.

"Are male and female inmates incarcerated together?" she asked, trying to hide the hesitation in her voice.

"We don't have enough female patients to warrant a women's wing," the orderly replied. "Every inmante is housed in a solitary cell, so you'll be safe." As they led her down the hall, Salem held her head high despite the whistles and catcalls that were lobbed her way. _Show no fear_ , she thought. _They're weak, fragile,_ stupid _things. In time, they'll come to realize that you hold the power, not them_. The hall seemed endless as they walked down it, inmates shouting and beating on the tempered glass doors of their cells.

"You're in minimum security, Ellis," Cash said. "Be glad you're not in Intensive Treatment with the _real_ animals." She saw Calendar Man in a cell to her left, the walls covered in torn calendar pages. Various dates were circled in red. He was seated on his cot, mumbling and staring at the floor. He glanced up at her for a moment, then resumed his mantra. She couldn't hear what he was saying over the noise. Farther down, Two-Face leaned up against a wall, the distinctly Harvey Dent side of his face angled towards the glass door. An old political poster proclaiming _Vote for Harvey Dent_! was hanging on the wall. Half of it was ripped.

They stopped in front of an empty cell. The orderly fished a keycard out of his pocket and slid it in a reader near the door, causing it to slide open. They uncuffed her and shoved her in. The door slid shut with a finite snap before she could even turn around. The entrance was made of the tempered glass, while the other three walls were solid steel. A cot sat along one wall with a thin mattress and pillow. Other than that, the cell was bare. Satisfied that her door was locked, the orderly and Officer Cash turned to leave.

"Aw, don't put her in there!" one inmate's voice chimed. "Bring her down here! I haven't seen a girl in ages, Cash!"

"QUIET DOWN IN HERE!" Cash yelled, his voice booming off the rafters. Most of the voices died down, though a few continued to babble incoherently in the distance. Their retreating footsteps rang in the silence. As they left, Salem heard Cash say,

"Keep an eye on that one, Jimmy. She gives me the creeps."

Once the door closed behind them it didn't take long for the voices to resume.

"Where'd they put her?" one asked.

"I dunno, but did you get a load of how tall she is? Chick's built like Scarecrow. All legs and no tits."

"Whatever man, supermodels are tall. I can dig it."

"And she's a redhead. You know what they say about redheads." A few snickers followed that remark.

"Yoo-hoo, where are ya, sweetheart? Do the curtains match the drapes?"

 _If only I could see him_. The thought drummed up a familiar sensation from somewhere deep within her. The fingers of her right hand twitched...No. She caught herself and curled her fingers into a fist, and the thrumming faded away. _Not here_ , she reminded herself. She glanced out into the hall, where the shiny lens of a camera swung to stare at her. _Not now_. It was too soon.

"Aw, are ya kidding me?" a voice nearer than the others exclaimed. "They stuck her across from _Nigma_. Does he even know how girls work? Hey, Riddler freak! Is she sexy? Let us know when she takes her top off!" Salem turned away from the camera and saw with mild surprise that she was indeed across the hall from the Riddler. Complex mathematical equations were scrawled across the walls of his cell, interspersed with what might have been stick figures of Batman and the ubiquitous question marks. He was currently stretched out on his cot, speed reading through an incredibly battered copy of Crime and Punishment. He looked up from the book at the mention of his name, a few strands of his dark hair falling in front of his blue eyes. The fluorescent lights cut harsh shadows across his face and emphasized the dark circles under his eyes. Judging from his expression, he was less than pleased that he had been interrupted. He glanced at her from over the top of his round spectacles before returning to his reading, completely disinterested.

The catcalling continued until Two-Face's gravelly voice barked out an order for everyone to shut up "before I break your jaws." Then, blessed silence.

"Cretins," the Riddler muttered from behind his book. Salem let herself fall onto her cot with a heavy sigh. The mattress was flat and its accompanying blanket thin. She shivered from the chill and drew her long legs up until her knees were at her chest and she leaned back against the cold metal wall. She stared up at the ceiling and imagined a clock ticking, its hands crawling at a glacial pace across its face, counting down her time. _Tick_. _Tick_. _Tick_.

 _Patience, Salem_ , she thought. _This is all part of the plan_.


	2. Patient Interview 1

She awoke with a startled gasp, her long fingers grabbing fistfuls of her sheets as her eyes snapped open. At first, all she could see was darkness, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she could make out the faint forms of the walls to her cell. Heart hammering in her chest, Salem tried to sit up but found that she couldn't move. Panic flooded over her.

_Where am I?_ she thought.

The memory of pain was so fresh in her mind that she almost felt it, and the smell of burnt flesh lingered in her nostrils. It was like a great weight was on her chest, keeping her pinned down. She whimpered, and it felt like a pulse of energy escaped her. Then, the weight was gone. She sat up and tore the blanket from her, thankful for the cool night air that prickled her skin, made her remember that it was all just a dream. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to force her breathing to return to normal.

_I'm in Arkham_ , she reminded herself. _Gotham City. I'm not...back there_.

She became aware of a mechanical whirring coming from somewhere out in the hall. Looking up, she saw the camera pointing down at the floor; it looked like it had somehow gotten stuck.

_Shit_ , she thought, just as she heard the door that lead into the hall open with a beep. Salem flung herself onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her shoulders, feigning sleep. A guard, taser in hand, appeared outside of her door and cast a wary glance around before approaching the camera. He scowled at it, then spoke into a walkie talkie at his shoulder.

"We have a malfunctioning camera in Minimum Security," he muttered. "No signs of it being tampered with. Must be faulty wiring. Call the electrician in the morning." He took one last look around before he turned and walked back to where he came from. Salem heard the scanner, then the beep, followed by the door sliding open and then closed. Silence followed.

But this time, the silence was anything but welcome.

*

A chime awoke her some time later. When had she dozed off again? The lights turned on abruptly, their bright, fluorescence dazzling her bleary eyes as she tried to open them. She groaned and held a hand up to block the light.

"Rise and shine, inmates!" a voice called through the speakers. "It's another day in Arkham!" She heard voices mutter and mumble and the sounds of mattress springs creaking as the other inmates hauled themselves out of bed. Salem sat up and stretched, wincing as her stiff muscles protested. She hardly felt rested. She glanced down at the mess of scars on her left hand and felt her heart tighten in her chest.

When would the dreams go away?

Orderlies trundled down the hall with carts stacked with what Salem assumed was breakfast. One of the beefy men would open the door and hold a taser at the ready while the other would unceremoniously slide a tray of food across the floor. Salem remained perched on her bed until the door to her cell slid shut, then cautiously reached out and pulled the tray closer to her. Plopping it into her lap, she gave it a perfunctory glance and immediately lost her appetite. Powdered eggs floated in a yellowish liquid on one side of the plate while a rubbery patty that she could only assume was sausage occupied the other. A very overripe banana and a small carton of milk rounded out the meal. She picked up the milk and checked the expiration date, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that it was still good. She opened the carton and took a sip before picking up the plastic fork and poking at the patty. The eggs were probably the better bet.

"It literally meets the barest nutritional requirements," the Riddler's voice chimed in from across the hall. "I hope you weren't expecting it to be edible." Salem looked up when she realized that he was talking to her. While he looked less than enthused about his meal, he had at least resigned himself to eating it.

Salem heard one of the other inmates down the hall call out something about wanting to watch her eat the banana. She wished she could shove it up his ass.

She put a forkful of eggs into her mouth and immediately regretted the decision. They were tasteless, and their texture could only be described as slimy. She resisted the urge to spit them back out again and forced herself to swallow. She tried to wash the tasteless slime out of her mouth with milk, but it only made the sensation worse.

"The food at Blackgate is better," she remarked, her voice strained with disgust.

"Ah yes, you were incarcerated there before," the Riddler said. "Rather remarkable that you didn't get the death penalty. Then again, if they won't send Joker to the electric chair, I doubt they'll send you." Salem set her tray down, now absolutely sure she wasn't hungry any more.

"I've been here less than a day," she said. "How could you possibly know who I am?"

"Salem Ellis, 32 years old, born in Melody, Indiana. Serial bomber with a predilection for religious establishments," he said by means of reply. He gave her the most smug grin she had ever seen. "I am the Riddler, Miss Ellis. I know _everything_."

The two orderlies who had escorted her through processing the day before appeared at her door. The younger of the two fiddled with a pair of handcuffs while the older one opened the door.

"C'mon Ellis, you're showering before the rest of these animals," he said. Salem stood up and held out her wrists for the cold metal cuffs to be clapped on. Each one grabbed one of her arms just above the elbow and led her out into the hall. The catcalls started up almost immediately.

"It's a good thing you ain't showerin' with us toots!" one said. "The things I'd do to you!" She saw out of the corner of her eye another making lewd gestures at her. She stopped so abruptly that she threw the guards off-balance as she swung to face him. Her thin red brows knitted into a dark line as she stared him directly in the eye.

"I killed 32 people to get in here," she snarled. "Do you want to be 33?" Whether it was the cold fury in her voice or the disconcerting look of her two-colored eyes staring him down, the man shriveled under her gaze and looked at the floor.

"That's enough, Ellis!" the older orderly barked, giving her a sharp tug in the direction of the door.

"Fucker," she muttered under her breath. The orderly gave her a shove.

"Watch your language!" he said as they waited for the door. A very bored guard sat in the nearby guard station reading a copy of Playboy. Not once did he glance up at the monitors in front of him. Salem could see the one that was connected to the camera outside her cell; its screen was full of static.

They took her into another shower room that looked like a gas chamber and stripped her down before they handcuffed her to a rail beneath the shower heads. They plopped a plastic bucket of toiletries at her feet and left. Freezing cold water doused her moments later, so cold it took her breath away in a gasp. She waited for the water to get warmer, but it never seemed to. She snatched a nondescript bar of soap out of the bucket and shivered like a stray dog in the rain as she lathered herself up. Was this really worth it? It will be, she reminded herself. It has to be.

*

**_Patient Interview Number One. This is Doctor Penelope Young. Patient's name is Salem Ellis. No known pseudonyms. As this is her first time in Arkham, this interview will be Miss Ellis's initial psychiatric evaluation._ **

The cheap leather chair that Salem sat in squeaked as she shifted her weight. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Young, sat in another chair on the other side of a desk littered with paperwork. A vase of flowers perched on one corner, their colorful petals almost too bright in the pervasive gloom of the Asylum. It looked like Dr. Young had quite a few patients in her care, and while she tried to sound cheery as she spoke into the voice recorder on her desk, Salem could tell that she was tired. She imagined there was probably a shortage of doctors in Arkham. The place had a reputation, after all.

"Miss Ellis, I'd like to start by talking about your childhood, if that's all right with you," Dr. Young said. She picked up a pen and hovered its point over her open notebook expectantly.

"It was awful," she replied. "Were you expecting another answer?" Young scrawled something in the sort of illegible script that only doctors seemed to have.

"If you're going to be flippant, I can't help you," she said. "Your father died when you were young, didn't he? Do you remember him?"

Daddy. Memories of him were what sustained her when the darkness got to be too much. Even all these years later she could recall the sharp scent of his aftershave when he bent down to kiss her goodbye before she went to catch the schoolbus. Every night he would read to her before bed. For some reason, she remembered that he was in the middle of reading her _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ when he died. She still had never finished that book.

"I do," Salem said. "He was good to me." She remembered when the phone rang that night. It was Sheriff Thompson, calling to tell her mother that her husband had been struck by a drunk driver at 80 mph. What little of her father remained was splattered across the pavement. It had been a closed casket funeral.

"And your mother? She died as well, under...unusual circumstances when you were a teenager," Doctor Young went on. Salem involuntarily tightened her grip on the arms of her chair. The psychiatrist scribbled something down; apparently she sensed the hostility. "I assume your memories of her weren't so fond?"

Salem thought about snarling a snarky reply but decided against it. She wished she could say that her feelings towards her mother were so cut and dry. Though the recent memories of Elaine Ellis were less than fond, she could recall a time when her mother had been good to her too. Though they were difficult to find, buried deep in the darkness and the fear, Salem remembered when her mother had kissed her scraped knees and given her an extra slice of pie on her birthday.

"You cited your mother's abuse as a reason for your insanity," Doctor Young was saying. "In your testimony you said that your mother turned to extreme religious doctrines following your father's death. That she did...that to you." She nodded down at Salem's hand.

"Do we really need to talk about that today?" Salem asked, covering the back of her hand with the other.

"We don't have to today, no," Doctor Young replied. "But we will eventually. I can help you work through your trauma, Salem. You just have to trust me." She paused and tapped the pen on the pad of paper in front of her, as if puzzling out how to best word her next question.

"I will ask you this, though," she said at length. "What do you think made your mother do that? Brand the cross into your hand, I mean. Did you rebel against the church or speak out against God? Most religious fanatics only lash out as a response." The question caught Salem off-guard. She hadn't rehearsed a fabricated response to this one.

_Because my mother was convinced I was possessed_ , she thought. _She thought I was a demon. She was purifying me with the fiery wrath of God._

"I...I was dabbling in witchcraft," Salem said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "You know, Wicca rituals and spells. I was fourteen. Some of the other girls were doing it, and I wanted to make a boy fall in love with me." She was pretty sure Doctor Young wasn't going to take the bait. She narrowed her eyes and seemed to scrutinize Salem's story from all angles before writing something down.

"All of the places you bombed were churches," Doctor Young said. "You told the judge that you were waging a war on God. Why?" Salem had decided a long time ago that she wasn't going to lie her way through this question.

"Because God did all of this to me," she replied. "My father was a preacher, you know. The night that he died, he was on his way home from the hospital. He had gone to pray over one of his parishioners who was dying of leukemia. Because my father felt compelled to go pray over a dying man, he ended up dead." Her grip on the chair's arms became white-knuckled as she felt her rage bubble up inside of her.

"And if that wasn't enough? God turned my mother against me. Made her do this." She held up her hand for emphasis. "Do you know what the worst part of all this is, Doctor? What the grand irony is? God isn't even real. He's a concept. My life was ruined because of a fucking concept."

"What was supposed to come out of killing all of those people?" Doctor Young asked. "Did you want to ruin their lives too?" Salem laughed. It was short and bitter.

"They were fools," she spat. "They go and they pray for hope and forgiveness, but it never comes. I once took solace in the idea that God would help me. That one day he would reach down and stop my mother from beating me. But he never did. Not once. No, Doctor Young, I wanted those people to realize what I do now; that God will never help them in the face of darkness, just like he never helped me."

Suddenly, the vase of flowers on Doctor Young's desk flew across the room and shattered against the wall in a spray of glass and water and petals. The door flew open and the two orderlies came charging in, looking for a struggle. Instead, all they saw were the two women staring at the remains of the flowers with wide-eyed surprise.

"I...I think that's all for today," Doctor Young said. She clicked off the recorder and furiously scribbled something down in her notes with a shaking hand. "Guards, take Miss Ellis back to her cell, if you please."


	3. The Rook

"Is there a book here that isn't by Nora Roberts?" Salem asked as she sifted through the pile of battered paperbacks piled haphazardly on top of the cart. The skinny orderly who stood on the other side of it rolled his eyes. His nametag said his name was Bart.

"Hell if I know, inmate," he said. "They're donations from the general public. Don't expect any Times Best Sellers." She tossed aside what she was certain was the eighth Nora Roberts book only to find a cheesy romance novel beneath it.

"Best Seller lists only show what's popular," she said, scowling at the cover of _Hot in Havana_. "It's not necessarily what's good."

"Well ain't you just a regular literature professor," Bart remarked snidely. "Wait, you ain't a professor too, are ya? _Doctor_ Crane's hard enough to deal with. And don't even get me started on this guy." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Riddler. "Though, I don't think he's an actual professor. Hey, Nigma. You a professor or did you just decide to be an arrogant prick all on your own?"

"People often resort to insults to mask their own feelings of inadequacy," the Riddler replied with obvious disdain. "Given your poor grammar, I'd wager you're threatened by my intelligence." The orderly laughed.

"It's the only thing you could threaten me with," he said. "C'mon Ellis, this isn't a yard sale. Just pick a book already." Salem glowered at him and snatched up a yellowing copy of Moby Dick. She had read it before, but it was preferable to anything else she had seen. She stepped back from the door and let the orderly go. Salem leafed through the book. It smelled musty, like it had been stowed away in a forgotten crate on the _Pequod_ since its publication.

"Ah, _Moby Dick_ ," the Riddler remarked. "An ironic choice, given the circumstances. Do you see yourself as Ahab or Ishmael?" Salem looked up from the book.

"Neither," she said. "I'm the whale." She turned and went back to her cot and opened the book to the first page.

_Call me Ishmael_ it read.

Before she could get very far, she heard footsteps that stopped just outside her cell. She looked up and saw two orderlies standing on the other side of the glass. One was the older man who had been hauling her up and down the halls since she'd gotten here, but she saw that the younger, nervous one had been replaced. This newcomer was as tall and broad-shouldered as they came; Salem assumed he probably played football in high school. Though he had a bit of a beer belly, his arms were thick and bulging with muscles that strained the hems on his shirtsleeves. He had a prominent five o'clock shadow on his coarse features, and his black hair was kept buzzed short to his skull. The way he looked at Salem made her uncomfortable.

"Here she is," the familiar orderly said. The new guy gave a short bark of laughter.

"This is what's got Doc Young all up in arms?" he asked. "She's a twig!"

"I know, I know," the old orderly said. "But you know who else is a twig? Crane. And I know I wouldn't want to mess with him and his creepy nightmare juice. This one though, she's just some anti-religious nutjob terrorist. I have no idea why Young's so freaked out about her."

_Because a vase flew off of her desk on its own volition_ , Salem thought, closing the book. _And I happened to be in the room when it happened_. The new guy smiled at her, and it turned her stomach.

"Don't worry Gerald, I'll keep a close eye on her." He winked at her, and the two of them continued down the hall. When the men left her field of vision, she could see the Riddler giving her an odd, mildly concerned look. He waited until the sounds of their footfalls disappeared then came right up to the door of his cell.

"Bit of friendly advice," he said."Whatever it was you did to get the administration to bring _him_ down here, I suggest you stop it." Salem scowled.

"I didn't do anything," she snapped.

"I find that unlikely," the Riddler returned. He jerked his head in the direction that the men had gone. "That big guy is named Larry Berkowitz. He's usually assigned to Intensive Treatment, where he's given full authority to do what he thinks is necessary to keep inmates subdued. Every so often they bring him down here to deal with a particularly recalcitrant patient. Six months ago Jervis Tetch went into an episode that was so bad they brought Larry down to deal with it. He broke Jervis's jaw. He had it wired shut for two weeks."

_Great_. Salem tightened her grip on her book.

"He looked at me like I was a piece of meat." The almost pitying look the Riddler gave her did little to ease her sudden sense of discomfort.

"I was going to add that you should be particularly careful. Rumor has it that Larry has assaulted female patients in the past."

"And the administration did nothing about it?" Salem asked. The Riddler gave a short, humorless laugh.

"Why should they?" he asked. "To them, we're nothing but animals in cages down here."

*

The appearance of Larry and the Riddler's warning only served to accelerate Salem's plan. She had paid a pretty penny to get thrown into Arkham for an expressed purpose: to break out again. The next stage in her master scheme required chaos. Chaos she could create on her own just fine, but that would require revealing all of her cards at once to the authorities, something she wasn't quite ready to do. She needed an accomplice. Someone who had broken out of Arkham before.

Recreation time in Arkham was an odd component to their regimented days. The inmates were ushered into a large, mostly barren room in an attempt to provide enrichment outside of their cells and foster social interactions. At least, that's what the shrinks said it was for. They were taken in groups that were small enough to be manageable if things got out of hand, and the members of those groups stayed fairly consistent. Supposedly they were put together based on psychological profiles -something about making sure everyone got along- but Salem was sure they were grouped together based on who would cause the fewest problems when thrown into a room together for an hour a day.

Salem was placed into the group that Larry called the "Nerd Brigade": the group of inmates who relied heavily upon devices and other outside means to commit their crimes, and who were not considered to be physically imposing. All of them were violent offenders (herself included) but the administration deemed it the safest crowd for her to be in. As it turned out, this included Calendar Man, the Riddler, and the Mad Hatter, among others. This amused Salem greatly, because it meant that the higher ups of Arkham saw her as nonthreatening.

_If only they knew_.

She had been turning over which of her new found companions would be the ideal candidate for her plan, though it quickly became obvious she had only one real choice. Calendar Man was too focused on his _modus operandi_ , and she would be forced to play her game by the days on the calendar. She didn't have that kind of time. The Mad Hatter was too far down the rabbit hole of his delusion to be of much use to her; she needed someone who could think clearly. That left her only one option. Salem knew enough about Edward Nigma to know that he was vastly intelligent and infuriatingly aware of it, and because of that, soliciting his assistance wouldn't exactly be easy. She would have to get his attention in such a way that she got it and kept it. She wracked her brain for a few days on how to accomplish this. Promising him money wouldn't work, and she doubted seducing him would either. The Riddler was a man obsessed with puzzles; she decided then that she would have to _become_ a puzzle.

Though recreational time was meant as a time of social interaction, most of the patients opted to ignore one another. Calendar Man often sat in one corner and mumbled to himself while the Mad Hatter tittered in another over a plastic tea set. Some of the other inmates played board games or watched awful daytime TV shows on a TV Salem was certain was as old as she was. The Riddler often played chess against himself, an activity Salem didn't quite understand.

"Do you entertain challengers, or do you always play alone?" she asked him one day. He looked up at her with mild irritation before flashing that smug grin of his.

"Jervis and I play on occasion," he replied, "but I always win. Really, I'm the only challenging person I can play against. Do you play, Miss Ellis?"

"I do," she said. "Care for a game?" This made him laugh.

"I hope you're ready to lose," he said, gesturing at the empty chair across from him. Salem slid into place as he began to reset the pieces. She had played chess in college, though she couldn't remember a time where she actually won. She glanced at the board and tried to remember how all of the pieces moved.

"Does the lady prefer black or white?" the Riddler asked.

"Black," she said. He rotated the board so the black pieces were in front of her, then gestured down at it.

"Ladies first," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest.

"A gentleman _and_ a scholar?" Salem said, perhaps more sarcastically than she intended.

"I pride myself on my manners," he said. "Among other things." Salem reached out and placed a finger on the rounded top of a pawn. They could move two spaces on their first move, but only one after that. She slid it forward two. The Riddler winced dramatically.

"Not the move I would've chosen," he remarked, sliding one of his own pawns one space forward.

"Well then, it's a good thing I'm not you," she returned, sliding another pawn, this time only one square.

"I'll attempt to level the playing field for you, Miss Ellis," he said. "Always look three moves ahead."

_Oh, I am_ , she thought.

"Complete heterochromia is often seen in cats and dogs, but exceedingly rare in humans," he continued, moving another piece across the board. "Is it congenital or circumstantial?"

"Circumstantial," Salem replied. "Old injury." That was a lie, but he didn't know that.

"Ah," he said, moving another of his pawns. "And your vision is affected?"

"I'm considered to be legally blind in that eye," she said. "I can see forms and some colors, but it's blurry." Not a lie. She moved another pawn out onto the field.

"Most unfortunate," he said. "Riddle me this, Miss Ellis: 'Eight of us go forth but not back to protect our king from a foe's attack. What are we?'" Salem scowled as the Riddler moved his knight and snatched up one of her pawns. "Here's a hint," he added. "You only have seven of them now."

And that number continued to dwindle. Seven became six, then five, then four. Soon she lost all of her pawns, both of her knights, and a bishop. She took only two of his pawns, and she was fairly certain he let her take them out of pity. She glanced at the board and shook her head.

"'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse,'" she quoted. This made the Riddler laugh.

"Feeling a bit like King Richard III, are we?" he asked. "'Withdraw, my lord; I'll help you to a horse.'" Salem chuckled at that; people seldom knew that she was quoting Shakespeare, let alone what the following line was. Alas, much like the Richard III of Shakespeare's play, she was not one so quick to surrender.

"Would you like to see a trick?" she asked, suddenly straightening herself in her chair and leaning forward. Though she made a concerted effort mask her nerves, Salem thought for a moment that she could hear her heart hammering in her chest. She might not have been quite ready to show her hand to the authorities, but if she wanted the Riddler's help, she would at least have to let him peek at her cards. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"If you're going to show me your cleavage in an attempt to distract me, it won't work," he said. Salem rolled her eyes.

"Not that kind of trick," she said. She made a show of looking around to make sure that no one was watching; the two guards on duty were too busy talking about the outcome of last night's football game to pay them much mind. When she turned back to him, she pressed a long finger against her lips in a gesture of silence, then she looked down at her rook poised in the right hand corner of the board. She focused on it, on its shape, its size, and she could almost feel its weight. Everything around the rook seemed to go blurry for a moment, bringing its crenellated top into sharp focus in the vision of her left eye.

The rook slid forward three spaces. Not once did Salem's hands leave the table.

The Riddler blinked, caught off-guard by what he had just seen. Then his eyes grew wide and his eyebrows flew up in shock. He looked from the rook to her and his brows knitted into a dark line of disbelief.

"How did you-?" he started to exclaim, but Salem clamped a hand over his mouth. The two guards stopped chatting and looked over at the two of them.

"Keep it down, Nigma!" one snapped before returning to their conversation. The Riddler snatched her hand away from him.

"How did you do that?" he hissed. Salem sat back in her chair; it was her turn to flash a smug grin.

"Riddle me this," she said. "'If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven't got me. What am I?'" She saw the muscles in his jaw tense.

"A secret," he snarled. Salem held up three fingers.

"You have three guesses," she said. She watched him as he checked under the table, then picked up the rook and examined it from all sides. She could almost see the gears turning in his head, trying to piece together the information. He slammed the piece back down on the board.

"Sleight of hand," he said. "A simple parlor trick."

"You were looking right at the board when it happened," Salem said. "You're willing to admit that my reflexes are faster than your eyes?" He seemed taken aback by this.

"No!" he sputtered. Salem curled one of her fingers down to her palm. She waggled the two remaining fingers at him.

"Two guesses now," she said. Before he could say anything more there was a chime, signaling that their recreational time was over. The orderlies filed in and clapped handcuffs on their patients, then started to lead them out of the room. Salem could feel the Riddler's eyes boring into her back as they left and she smiled.

Always look three moves ahead.


	4. The Witch's Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, I'm totally flabbergasted that this has gotten 70 hits, especially since I started writing this for giggles and didn't expect anyone to read it at all! All 70 of you seriously bring a smile to my face, and thank you for stopping by :)

Salem's powers were a double-edged sword.

She wasn't entirely sure how she acquired them in the first place, other than it was some latent gene stashed away in her genetic code until puberty had her in its firm grasp. So not only did Salem have to come to terms with normal issues like body hair, pimples, and menstruation, she also had to deal with the inexplicable ability to move things with her mind.

It was a normal afternoon when her telekinesis first surfaced. She came home from school and her mother, weary from depression, was doing her best to make an after school snack. Salem was eleven, her already long legs swinging back and forth as she watched her mother's back expectantly. Something, dust perhaps, tickled her nose and caused her to sneeze. But something else accompanied her _aa-choo!_ something that felt like a surge of energy expanding out from her like shockwaves from a bomb. Both her and her mother jumped when the kitchen door slammed shut so hard that it rattled the dishes in the sink.

Later that night, Salem awoke in the early twilight to the odd sensation that she was holding something. As she surfaced from the depths of sleep, she had the vague realization that her hands were empty, but she still felt the weight of an object. There was movement out of the corner of her eye, and as her vision cleared she saw the lamp beside her bed levitating nearly a foot off the nightstand. She sat bolt upright, but the minute she was totally awake it crashed to the floor and broke in a hundred pieces.

The next morning she complained that everything was blurry out of her left eye. Her mother took her to the doctor. After examining her the doctor looked both very concerned and very confused. He informed her mother that Salem's vision was beginning to deteriorate in that eye for absolutely no discernible reason. He ran more tests, but he said nothing short of a cornea transplant would solve the problem. They didn't have the money for a cornea transplant, and month after month, Salem's vision grew worse and worse. As her vision got blurrier her brown eye grew bluer, until it was the startling shade of icy blue that it was today. From that moment on she had to sit at the front of the class. The other kids made fun of her.

After only a few months of doors and windows slamming shut and flying open, books soaring off the shelf, and vases toppling over, her mother realized that her daughter was the source of it all. She quickly became convinced that Salem was possessed by a demon. She made harried inquiries to the Catholic church for an exorcism, all of which were ignored; everyone knew Elaine Ellis had lost her mind since her husband's death, and to them this was just the ramblings of a woman mad with grief, seeing devils when there were none. No one had ever seen Salem's powers in motion, and if they did they merely explained it away as the wind or a wobbly table. And because her telekinesis terrified her, Salem never showed anyone.

When her requests for an exorcism were denied, Salem's mother took matters into her own hands. Though she went to school as normal and put on a brave face in the halls, Salem's life became a living hell as her mother doused her in "holy" water, recited Bible verses over her, and tried other, more grotesque ways in an effort to drive the demon out.

In tenth grade English, Salem read Arthur Miller's play _The Crucible_ and was immediately struck with the tales of girls practicing witchcraft in the woods. From then on, every day after school, she would duck into the trees behind her home and practice using her powers. First she learned how to pick up and throw sticks, then rocks, then her backpack full of books. When her mother found her one day, she dragged Salem indoors by her hair and beat her with a horse whip. Horse whips weren't meant to break the skin, but her mother drew blood that day. Even as a teenage girl Salem knew that she could turn her powers against her and make it all stop, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She was her mother, after all. And as her counselor had told her one afternoon in his office after she broke down and cried in the halls, "Your mother's not herself right now, Salem. I know it's hard, but you have to remember that."

Salem's hesitation, however, wouldn't last forever.

*

"I'd like to talk about the scars on your hand today," Dr. Young said. Salem rolled her eyes and flopped against the back of the squeaky leather chair. She had been dodging the good doctor's questions on the matter for days now, but she showed so sign of letting up. She wished she could make another vase fly off of the desk and be sent back to her cell.

"How about we talk about you putting a guard who is rumored to have sexually assaulted female patients in charge of watching me?" she countered. Dr. Young rolled her eyes.

"You can't possibly believe anything that comes out of the mouth of Edward Nigma or anyone else in this place," she said. "Larry has never assaulted anyone unless it was absolutely necessary to restrain the patient."

_Tell that to Jervis's jaw_ , she thought.

"Let me see your hand," Dr. Young said, holding out her own, perfectly un-scarred hand. Salem made no move to lean forward and do as she was told. "Do you want me to call Larry in here?" The threat was enough to make Salem comply.

Just looking at the scars left a bad taste in Salem's mouth, and even though she'd done it to herself, she liked to try and pretend that they didn't exist. To an onlooker it was a myriad of white scars, the raised tissue criss-crossed and tangled together like unraveled yarn. If one looked closely, the outline of a crucifix was nestled beneath all of it, its once angry edges softened by time and the large shard of glass that Salem had used to mutilate her own flesh. Chaotic as it seemed, she could remember each cut with startling clarity, the feeling of the glass as it sliced through flesh in an attempt to blot out her mother's mark forever. The cutting had produced a flood of emotion so overwhelming that Salem had hacked at her hand harder and deeper than she intended, severing two of her tendons; her pinkie and ring fingers would never straighten completely again. Even now, as Doctor Young scrutinized the damage, they curled halfway to her palm. Doctor Young ran her thumb over the ridges of the scars, making Salem shiver.

"You did this to yourself?" the doctor asked, letting go of her and sitting back in her chair. Salem, free and suddenly embarrassed, clutched her ruined hand to her chest. "With what? A knife?"

"Glass," Salem replied, her voice blank. "It was a shard of glass." An image of her ragged, bloody flesh flashed across her mind, the grass spattered with crimson, the shard of glass laying there, gorey and red. Doctor Young looked queasy as she jotted down something in her notes.

"You have no other history of self-harm," she said. "Blackgate's psychiatrist said that you were of least concern for suicide."

"My mother branded me with a crucifix," Salem snapped, suddenly irritable. "I didn't want to look at it any more."

"A bit extreme," the psychiatrist remarked.

"So is branding your daughter."

"Why did your mother do that, Salem?" Dr. Young asked. Salem rolled her eyes.

"I told you, I was dabbling in witchcraft," she snarled.

"And that's a lie," Dr. Young returned, her voice calm. "We both know that." Trying to explain her mother's final act of religious lunacy was hard, especially when one needed to circumvent the very crucial detail of Salem's demon-fueled telekinetic powers.

"I...I was dating a girl," she said after a moment of hesitation. "That winter when I came home from college I told my mother." This wasn't a lie. "She...She flew into a rage, called me an abomination. She then dragged me upstairs and branded me with a cross that she heated up over the flame of a candle, so that God's mark would purify me of my sins." Salem remembered like it was yesterday. Her mother dragged her by her hair to the attic, where she conducted all of her attempted exorcisms so blood wouldn't get on the kitchen floor. It was here, nestled between a dusty Christmas tree and a box of her father's relics that Salem finally lost her resolve and discovered a part of her she never knew existed.

"Why did you tell your mother that you were dating a woman?" Dr. Young asked. "You knew she wouldn't be happy with it, given her religious views."

"Because I was a surly teenager?" Salem replied. "Because I was drunk on the freedom that going to college offered me?"

She had watched the crucifix grow hotter and hotter as she struggled and begged her mother to stop. Please, stop. But her mother was in almost a fervent trace, holding the metal cross over the flame with a pair of pliers. It went from a dull silver to orange, then red, then a brilliant white unlike any other color Salem had ever seen. Her mother began to recite the Lord's Prayer as she grabbed her daughter's left hand. The hand of the Devil.

_And though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for thou art with me_.

The pain had been excruciating, the rancid smell of burning flesh at once sickening and tantalizing. Salem screamed, and the noise that came out of her was almost inhuman. Their house was surrounded by cornfields on three sides; there were no neighbors to hear her.

"Your mother committed suicide sometime afterwards, didn't she?"

Dr. Young's question was innocent, but Salem was still unprepared for the unwelcome feelings it dredged up from deep within that buried part of her heart. Elaine Ellis's death was ruled a suicide, but it was anything but. In her agony, Salem lost control of her powers, and it was in that moment she learned that her mind could kill. Her mother was thrown backwards with such a force that she flew across the room and out of the third story window. She plunged down with a yelp, only to land on a concrete birdbath in the yard. She was killed instantly.

"She did," Salem said. The years that followed made Salem's heart harden towards her mother, as the nightmarish memories of her torture settled into her dreams. She despised her mother's memory most of the time, but there was still a lingering guilt that she had never quite managed to dispel, echoed by her couselor's words all those years ago: Your mother's not herself right now. Salem had damned everyone that she could, from her mother, to her father for dying, to the drunk driver that had killed him, but none of it brought her solace. Her hate then settled on God, who she had concluded couldn't possibly exist if such atrocities happened every day. He was a fairy tale people told themselves to make them feel better. A fool's errand.

Destroy God, destroy the facade, then everyone would see, just like her.

_He can't protect you from this, from me. God is dead, and mankind is the one who killed him_.

"I see this upsets you," Dr. Young remarked. She clicked off her tape recorder. " That will be all for today, Salem. Guards! Take Miss Ellis back to her cell, please."

 

*

When Larry shoved her back in her cell and shut the door, Salem waited for them to leave before she leaned up against the glass. Across from her, the Riddler was pacing back and forth like a nervous animal in a cage, muttering to himself as he tried to puzzle out the source of the chess piece moving on its own. He must have felt her gaze on him because he stopped and glowered at her. The dark circles under his eyes were even darker, making them appear bluer than before.

"How's guess number two coming along?" Salem asked. The scathing glare he shot her was answer enough.

She walked back to her cot and laid down on it, picking up _Moby Dick_ and flipping its yellowed pages to the dogeared corner. Before she began reading, she wondered just how long it would take Edward Nigma to sort it all out.


	5. The Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a scene of attempted rape.

As it turns out, he had it figured out the very next day.

Salem was dozing on the couch in front of the TV, some daytime talk show chattering in the background. She was just drifting off when a shadow fell across her and startled her awake. The Riddler stood over her, looking haggard, sleep-deprived, but as smug as ever. He fished around in the pockets of his khaki trousers and pulled out a somewhat rusted metal fork. He held it up triumphantly, as if it were supposed to impress her.

"Bend it!" he said. Salem sat up and arched an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?" she asked, utterly bewildered. He only rolled his eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Bend the fork," he said, emphasizing every word as if she was hard of hearing. "Isn't that what people do to prove their psychic ability? Bend cutlery with their mind?" Salem was caught off-guard by the matter-of-fact way he said it; no one ever _believed_ in actual psychic ability.

"I think it's supposed to be a spoon," Salem said, recovering her composure. _Don't let him see that he's surprised you_. The Riddler rolled his eyes again.

"This was all I could find," he snapped. "Wyatt was going to use it to stab Ben in the throat or something equally barbaric. I had to trade my dessert for it."

"Psychic power isn't exactly everyone's second guess," she remarked. "Or even their third."

"We live in a world where Superman is very much alive," the Riddler returned. "Psychic powers aren't exactly out of the realm of possibility."A very salient point, she had to admit. She sat up and flicked a hank of her red hair back over her shoulder.

"Hold it up," she said. Once he had, she focused on it, envisioning it bending in half. She could feel the metal resist, then give way to the pressure as it folded over into a ninety-degree angle. The Riddler gave it a perfunctory glance, then nodded once.

"Fascinating," he said, stashing the bent fork in his pocket. "I suppose there's a very good reason you're sharing this information with me. Obviously, the guards have no idea what you can do; otherwise, you'd be locked in Intensive Treatment." He smirked at her. "It's a risky thing, telling other inmates your secrets. Who's to say that your trust isn't terribly misplaced? I could go to the guards with this information and be rewarded for it." There was a threat in his words and Salem didn't like it, but there was no turning back now. She patted at the sofa cushion next to her. The Riddler settled in beside her, and both of them pretended to watch television. The guards were talking about football again and totally oblivious.

"You've broken out of Arkham before," she said, her voice low.

"Ah, planning to leave so soon?" he asked. "I could break out of this place blindfolded. It's not exactly hard, as I'm sure you've surmised. If that half-trained circus monkey Joker can do it, literally anyone can."

"I need someone who's tech savvy," Salem said. "Someone who can hack into the asylum's security system and open a lot of doors at once." The Riddler snorted.

"Child's play," he said. "Please, Miss Ellis, this is hardly a challenge."

"For you it's not," she said. "But for me? I'm not even a tenth as good with computers as you are. Plus, you're the best, aren't you?" He perked up a bit at that, like a rooster fluffing its feathers.

"I'm glad someone in this establishment recognizes that," he said. Salem resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Men were all the same; appealing to their egos could always get a girl places.

"I'll need you to open as many cell doors as you can," she said. "The more bodies we can put in the halls, the better our chances of getting out of here." The Riddler held up a finger.

"Before we continue, let's establish what's in this for me," he said.

"Guaranteed freedom," Salem replied. "I'll make sure you get out of here. Everyone else will be on their own."

"If we get caught, the administration will double our sentences," he said.

"What's your sentence up to now?" Salem asked. There was a little half-smirk on his face.

"Longer than the years I have left on this mortal coil," he said. "Sentencing aside, there will be guards, and some of them will certainly have guns. Depending on who gets out of their cell, they may even issue orders of shoot to kill."

"Guards with guns don't scare me," Salem said. She tapped at the side of her head. "I can do a lot more than just move chess pieces and bend forks, Mr. Nigma. Leave the guards to me." There was a moment of silence, and Salem could feel him scrutinizing her out of the corner of his eye.

"You got thrown into Arkham simply to break out, didn't you?" he said. "This was your plan all along."

"How very perceptive of you."

"Are you surprised?" he asked. "Now, the only question is why?"

"I need a large scale diversion," Salem replied. "Something big enough and chaotic enough that it'll keep even the Batman off of my back for the time being. I know he was assisting the GCPD in tracking me down, but I managed to stay just enough under his radar that it was Commissioner Gordon slapping me in handcuffs. If I broke myself out, he would be all over me. But, if I break out myself and twenty of his worst enemies, who is he most likely to go after? Me, or the Joker?" The Riddler chuckled at that.

"So I'm just another one of those diversions," he remarked. Salem shrugged.

"What you choose to do once you're out of here is on you," she said. "But, from what I've heard, you're usually the last one to get caught. _If_ he manages to catch you at all this time." He seemed to consider that for a moment.

"Very well," he said. "I would be lying if I said that I would pass up any chance to get out of here. I'll assist you in this endeavor, Miss Ellis." He turned his gaze directly on her and she saw his expression harden. "But, if you somehow double-cross me, know that you'll live just long enough to regret it." Salem didn't doubt that. Though the Riddler was often ridiculed by both the media and the rest of the criminal underworld, he was still a dangerous man. She had a feeling that she if she did somehow rescind her word, she would wake up in a strange room with no recollection of how she got there, and be presented with a choice: solve the puzzle, or die.

"One more thing," she said, fishing into her own pocket. She pulled out a folded piece of paper; a note, scribbled on a filler page from _Moby Dick_ written with an outrageously purple crayon that she pilfered from the art table in the corner a week ago. "Can you get a message to the outside?" The Riddler took it and put it in his own pocket.

"Who am I sending it to?" he asked.

"James Paradelli," she replied. "He's my most trusted man. He'll know what the note means." The bell chimed to tell them that their recreational time was over for the day. Salem stood up and stretched.

"Be ready in the next few days," she muttered as she made for the door.

*

Salem awoke to being hauled out of bed.

Rough hands grabbed her by the arms so hard that it sent sharp pains lancing through her body. Caught off-guard, she was swung onto the floor like a ragdoll. Another calloused hand clamped over her mouth, silencing the scream that was about to echo through the halls. Her eyes tried to adjust to the gloom of Arkham after-hours; her left eye could only make out vague forms moving in the shadows, but her right eye saw the white uniforms of orderlies. She struggled against the hands holding her, but it was no use; they were too strong and had too good of a grip on her to wriggle free. She kicked out with one foot and felt one of her toes break as she impacted what felt like someone's jaw. She heard a man mutter a swear word before stars exploded in her field of vision as he dealt her a swift punch to the jaw. Dazed, she crumpled against the other person holding her. The hand over her mouth jerked her head around and her stomach lurched when Larry's face came into focus. Her struggling intensified as he started to yank down her pants with his other hand.

"Quit your struggling or I'll break your face!" he hissed. Salem tried to yell and scream, but only muffled sounds could be heard around Larry's palm. She tried to kick him again, but her foot bounced off his massive arm. He grabbed a fistful of her shirt and pulled it hard; buttons popped off and she heard some seams rip. Tears began to stream down her face as he began trying to yank off her underwear. Salem blinked to clear her vision and focused on Larry as hard as she could. Everything around her seemed to blur for a moment as he came into startling clarity, and she felt the familiar surge lurch through her, propelled with startling force by her terror.

Larry flew backwards and hit the door of her cell so hard that it cracked the tempered glass. When he slid down in a quiet heap, he left a streak of blood. The hands holding her arms abruptly let go and she dropped to the cold floor as the other orderly sped past her. She didn't get a look at his face. Salem screamed into the darkness for the guards as she struggled to simultaneously pull her pants up and clutch her ripped shirt to her chest. All around her inmates were startled awake by her cries and lights abruptly snapped on.

They found her huddled in a corner, her legs drawn up to her chest. She trembled like a trapped animal, too afraid to move. Tears streamed freely down her face as she stared warily at Larry's prone body.

"What the hell?" one guard said, looking from Salem to Larry to the cracked glass.

"He tried to rape me!" she screamed. One of the guards came over and knelt down beside her. He took off his jacket and laid it across her, then fished in his pocket for a crumpled tissue and dabbed at her nose; it was only then that she realized she was bleeding.

"It's okay honey, everything's going to be okay," he said. Something about his voice was soothing. She grabbed at his jacket and held it like a shield; as far as she was concerned, it was an impregnable barrier between her and the man laying face-up on the floor. Blood pooled around the back of his head. A second guard pressed his fingers against Larry's neck.

"He's still alive," he announced. He looked up at the cracked glass. "Did he slip and fall or something?"

"That's really not the important thing right now," the guard by Salem snapped. Another body appeared in the doorway as Officer Cash ducked into the cell. He had dark circles under his eyes from night duty down at Killer Croc's lair in the basement. He took one look at the scene in front of him and shook his head before approaching Salem.

"Are you all right Ellis?" he asked. He looked her over with genuine concern, his gaze lingering on the angry red welt that was rising up on her jaw. The only sound Salem could produce was a whimper. Cash reached out and gently touched her shoulder. She flinched.

"Let's get you over to medical," he said. "C'mon Salem." He helped her to her feet and let her lean against him as he led her out of the cell. She pulled the jacket as tight around her as she could. As she passed by, Salem felt a surge of rage and she kicked Larry in the ribs as hard as she could. Her broken toe screamed in response and she yelped in pain.

"Son of a bitch!" she cried as Cash ushered her out of the room. Salem saw wide-eyed faces pressed against the glass of their cells, watching in stunned silence as she limped towards the exit. As they waited for the body scan to complete, Salem buried her face in Cash's shoulder and sobbed.


	6. Hell is Empty

Officer Cash sighed as he set his notepad aside and rubbed at his tired eyes. Salem, propped up in her bed in the medical ward, only rolled her eyes.

"Ellis -Salem," Cash corrected himself, "I can't really help you if you aren't more specific." It had been a week since Larry came into her cell and dragged her out of bed in an attempt to rape her.

"Oh, I dunno," she snarled. "I guess I was too busy trying to keep my pants on." Quite a stir had been kicked up in Medical following the incident, with most of the nurses gossiping about what happened in hushed whispers in the hall. No one could quite figure out how Larry had sustained the concussion he'd received while in Salem's cell, as it was too severe for him to have simply slipped and fallen. But, given the size difference between him and his intended victim, no one could explain how it had happened in the first place. It's not like Salem could have thrown him across the room. And curiously enough, the security camera outside of her cell had malfunctioned at that exact moment, so no video footage existed as evidence.

Cash in particular was having a difficult time trying to piece the puzzle together for his official report. He took a sip of coffee out of a paper cup and picked up his notes once again.

"Let's start from the beginning. You were asleep when you were dragged out of bed by Larry and another accomplice."

"Yeah, and Larry socked me in the jaw when I fought back," Salem snapped. Even now an angry black and blue bruise spread across the right side of her jaw.

"Now what I'm having a hard time understanding is what happened after," the officer said. "You said he tried to pull your pants down, ripped your shirt, and then, what? Just slipped and fell backwards with enough force to break tempered glass?"

"I wasn't really paying attention to what was happening to him." Salem was immeasurably annoyed with this line of questioning. Though she was more than aware that it was her that had thrown Larry with such force, she wasn't about to openly admit it. "The only thing that I was really concerned with was trying to not get raped." Cash sighed again and shut his notes for the second time since their conversation started.

"Salem, I understand that this whole experience was awful," he said. "And I want to nail Larry for it, I really do. But if all you can offer is vague details...I don't know if I can convince admin that he needs to go." She side-eyed him.

"You want to nail him for it?" she repeated. "From what I gathered the administration really likes this guy." Cash gave her a disgusted look.

"Yeah, well, I don't," he said. "I've had my suspicions since the whole Poison Ivy incident."

"'Poison Ivy incident?'"

"Larry is usually assigned to Intensive Treatment as I'm sure you know," Cash replied. "Six months ago he came to Medical with an odd rash on his hands. The next day, Poison Ivy filed a complaint that he'd grabbed her inappropriately. Administration blamed her pheromones or whatever it is she does. I wasn't so convinced."

"You have video footage of him coming into my cell, don't you?" Salem asked. Cash nodded.

"Yeah, and shortly after that the camera goes to static. It's the second time it's malfunctioned since you've been here. It's odd, because the wiring is in perfect working order." She could detect a note of suspicion in his voice and it made her nervous. She couldn't keep up her charade for much longer.

"That should be evidence enough," she said. "I shouldn't have to go into the gorey details to get this asshole canned." She might have put on a show of disdain for Cash and the others, but the reality was Salem couldn't sleep without the pills that the nurses were giving her. Images of Larry's face joined her mother in the ranks of her nightmares. The first two nights in the medical ward the doctors had strapped her down to her gurney out of fear that she would harm herself.

"I've got him suspended with no pay," Cash said. "For now, it's the best I can do." He reached out and laid his hand over hers and looked her in the eye. "Look. I don't like you, as I'm sure you're aware, but you didn't deserve this. I'll do everything I can to take the bastard down. I promise." Salem could see that he was sincere, but she wondered how Cash's promises would hold up to an administration that liked to turn a blind eye to the mistreatment of their patients.

"Thank you," she said. He gave her hand a squeeze and gathered up his things to leave. As she watched him go, Salem made a mental note to find Larry's address when she got out of Arkham. She would have retribution one way or another.

*

The Riddler tapped his chin as he stared at the chess board on the table, calculating his next move against himself. He could move the black knight and take the white rook, which was the more immediate threat, or he could use this move to better maneuver the black queen to checkmate the enemy king. So many choices. He was about to reach out and pick up the queen when Salem suddenly flopped down in the chair across the table, startling him. The queen fell over. He clenched his jaw and glared at her from over the top of his glasses.

"Hello to you too," he said. He was about to add another smarmy comment when he took notice of how utterly exhausted she looked. Her eyes were ringed in dark circles and she had the glassy-eyed stare of someone who desperately needed sleep. But there was an underlying rage burning there too, and he was fairly certain that that rage was the only thing keeping her going at this point. They must have just let her out of medical; she still had on the bright yellow paper wristband that they put on all of their patients.

"You look like hell," he remarked. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Tomorrow," she said. "We're doing it tomorrow."

"That's a little abrupt, don't you think?" he asked, lowering his voice. Edward Nigma was many things, but spontaneous wasn't one of them. He was a meticulous planner down to the most minute detail; and at this juncture, absolutely no details had been discussed.

"I understand that you're eager to be out of here, Miss Ellis, but-"

"Tomorrow," Salem snapped, interrupting him. "Just be ready."

"And how are you going to get me out of my cell?" the Riddler countered. "Do you have any idea what time of day they change the guards around here? How many guards there will be? Will they be armed?" He paused for a moment and did some quick calculations in his head. "There's at _least_ a hundred factors to consider and...a million possible ways that they can play out in the event of a mass breakout at Arkham. I strongly suggest that you take the time to consider them carefully before you get us both killed." Salem's dark scowl suddenly broke and she leaned forward to put her elbows on the table. She rubbed at the corners of her eyes.

"The nightmares are worse," she said, more to herself than to him. "They come more frequently than before. It's this place...I have to get out of here." Nightmares were something that the Riddler was intimately familiar with.

"Being outside of Arkham won't make them stop," he said. "Trust me." She looked up at him and the smoldering rage in her two-toned eyes startled him.

"Perhaps," she said, "but revenge would certainly help me sleep better." She looked down at the chess board and focused on the queen, who lay toppled over in the midst of her subjects. The piece smoothly righted itself and stood poised for its move.

"The orderlies take me to my therapy session after our morning showers," she said. "Be ready then."

*

Salem was moved to a cell down the hall from her old one while they repaired the glass. The man across from her stood in a corner and banged his head against the wall in a rhythmic beat, making it difficult to focus on her reading. She was just about to turn the page when the door to her cell slid open and a lone orderly entered.

"C'mon Ellis, it's time to go see your shrink." She felt her pulse quicken as she folded over the corner of the page and set her book aside. "Hurry it up inmate, I don't have all day!" Salem stood and stretched, then held out her wrists for the orderly to snap handcuffs on her. He dragged her down the hall, and she caught the Riddler's eye as she passed by his cell. He stood leaning against the wall, and he gave her the barest nod as she walked by. There was a bathroom a little ways up the hall, and Salem balked at it.

"What the hell are you doing?" the orderly snapped.

"I have to use the bathroom," she replied. The orderly rolled his eyes and tugged at her arm.

"You can hold it, inmate." Salem held up a finger, then tried to rifle in her pocket. She pulled out a sanitary pad wrapped in a pale green wrapper. She held it up for him to see.

"It's not that kind of bathroom break," she said. The orderly looked disgusted.

"Gross," he muttered. "Fine. But make it quick." She held out her wrists and let him unlock the cuffs before she pushed the bathroom door open and ducked inside.

Once it swung shut behind her, she got to work. She pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wadded them into a ball, which she crammed down into the drain. She then turned on the water full blast and watched as the sink began to fill. The sink bowl was shallow and soon water began to overflow, making the tiles slick. Satisfied, she darted into a stall and crouched on top of the toilet bowl, drawing her legs up so he wouldn't see her feet. Then, she waited.

Sure enough, a few moments later she could hear the orderly's muffled voice from the hall.

"Hurry up in there, Ellis!" he barked. "I ain't got all day!" She said nothing and stayed in place. A few moments later, "Alright Ellis, I'm coming in there!" She could hear the door open. "You better not be -hey, where are you?" There was the sound of his plastic-soled shoes skidding across the wet tile, followed by the sound of his meaty body hitting the floor with a yelp. Salem jumped out of the bathroom stall and grabbed the back of the orderly's head with one hand; she slammed it into the nearby sink with a sickening crunch. He fell to the tile, silent and bloody.

Salem knelt down and yanked the key card off of his belt and paused long enough to give him a sharp kick to his ribs before stepping over his inert body and back out the door. She cast a glance up and down the hall before retracing her steps. She stopped at the Riddler's cell. He stared at her in open disbelief as she slid the card into the reader and his door came open with a mechanical hiss.

" _This_ is your master plan?" he hissed. "You...You ebullient moron, you're going to get us killed!" Salem grabbed his arm just above the elbow and yanked him out into the hall.

"Shut up and keep moving," she said below her breath.

"Whispering won't stop the cameras from seeing us!" he retorted, nodding up to one of them perched in a nearby corner. Its lens swung to stare at them like an eye. Salem only glanced up at it as she walked by.

"The cameras aren't a problem," she said, tapping at her head with her free hand. The Riddler didn't understand what that was supposed to mean, but he didn't resist her as she whisked him down the hall; at this point, there was no turning back, really. He was already out of his cell, so he might as well try to escape.

Salem could see the guard station at the far end of the hallway; the hardest part would be getting there without anyone causing a ruckus and alerting the guards prematurely. She held a finger to her lips as they stormed past Two-Face's cell, and he gave her a curt nod.

"Shut up, all of you!" he barked. Most of the other inmates watched them go by in mute surprise. What was going on? Was this a breakout?

The guard was reading a magazine, completely oblivious to what was going on outside. Salem swiped the key card into the guard station's reader and burst into the room with her right hand held out towards the guard. He only had enough time to look up before he was rocketed backwards against the wall with enough force to knock him out cold. Salem hauled the Riddler in and swiped the card again on another reader, causing its electrical barrier to reinstate itself. The Riddler scrambled up to the control console without being asked and began to furiously type on a keyboard. Salem snatched up a pistol from the guard's belt and checked its clip before she began pacing back and forth like a nervous animal.

"How long will it take?" she asked. The Riddler shrugged, eyes darting back and forth from screen to screen. The light glared green off the lenses of his glasses and bathed his face in their pale glow, cutting harsh shadows across his features. A faint scar on his left cheek suddenly stood out in stark relief.

"As long as it needs to," he replied curtly, tapping on the mouse. "Stop pacing. You're making me nervous." Salem shoved the pistol into the waistband of her pants and started looking for improvised weapons; guns always ran out of bullets. She flung open a cabinet and found a first aid kit, which she snatched up and tore open. She dumped out the bandages and burn kits until she found two pre-wrapped syringes. She ripped them open and palmed them like daggers. They wouldn't be enough to kill, but they would be enough to cause a distraction.

"What did I just say?" the Riddler snapped over the sound of clicking keys. "I can't concentrate with all that racket." Suddenly, a screeching alarm blared through the speakers. No doubt the security cameras, now free of Salem's disrupting presence, had caught sight of their empty cells. Warning lights in the hall began to furiously blink red as a mechanical voice came in over the loudspeakers.

_Breakout in Minimum Security_ , it droned. _Red Alert. Breakout in Minimum Security. Red Alert_.

Salem thought she heard the Riddler swear under his breath as his fingers flew even faster over the keyboard. He shook his head.

"I'm going to need more time," he snapped, glaring at her over the top of his glasses. "You better start _making_ that time if you ever want to see the outside again." Salem fingered the syringes in her hand as she made her way to the door.

"I'll make your time," she muttered, swiping the key card again. The barrier went down and she stepped out into the hall. The door to her right beeped and opened as four orderlies came rushing through, the one in the lead wielding an electrified baton. They pulled up short when they saw her, and for a moment no one moved.

"On the ground, inmate!" the lead one shouted. Salem held up both of her hands.

"She's got needles!" another orderly shouted when he saw the syringes in her hand. "Drop the syringes, inmate. Nice and slow now." He held out a hand towards her in a gesture of calming; what did he think she was? A wild animal?

"I'll do you one better," she said. She twisted her wrist and held the needles out to them palm-up, almost as if she wanted them to take them out of her hand. One of them took a step towards her but stopped when the syringes suddenly levitated up and hung suspended in mid-air. Salem inwardly laughed at their looks of blank wonder as the syringes floated there aimlessly. Then, she wrinkled her brow and the needles snapped to attention, their sharp points aimed right at the orderlies. She met eyes with the first one and smirked before they flew across the room and embedded themselves in this throat. He yelped in surprise and swung the electric baton wildly, striking the orderly to his left; the other two scrambled to get out of the way. One lunged at her, but stopped as if he struck an invisible wall before he was flung back with enough force that his neck snapped back with a sickening crack. The fourth orderly managed to duck past her and scramble down the hall; he turned a corner before she could stop him.

"Shit," she muttered. She whirled on the orderly with the baton, dealing with a swift kick to the jaw that laid him out flat. Those kickboxing lessons certainly were paying off now. She snatched the baton up and shot out her free hand towards the other man; his head too snapped back with an unseen force and slammed against the wall. Salem stalked back into the guard chamber where the Riddler continued to work.

"Can we hurry this along, please?" she asked.

"You can't rush greatness, sweetheart," he returned, not even bothering to turn around. This made her sneer at his back.

There was another beep as the door in the hall opened again, and she saw the muzzle of a gun before Cash came into her sight, flanked by two other armed guards on high alert. They looked down at the three orderlies either dead or unconscious on the floor.

"What the-?" one of the guards exclaimed. Salem lurched out of the guard station, the electric baton held out in front of her. She tazed Cash with enough volts to drop him, then turned on the next nearest guard. She focused on the gun, and it suddenly whipped out of his hands and into hers. He was in such shock that he didn't even have time to scream before she shot him in the throat. The second guard managed to fire off two wild shots before she shot him too. Wild shouts from the other inmates echoed up and down the hall behind her.

Cash groaned on the floor at her feet. Salem considered shooting him, but the opportunity to gloat was staring her in the face and too good for even her to pass up. She reached down and grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him into a sitting position.

"Ah! Officer Cash!" she exclaimed. "So glad you could join us." He stared at her with bleary eyes. She pulled him to his feet. "Please! Come in!" She dragged him into the guard station and shoved him down to his knees, and he seemed to come to.

"Ellis," he said, glaring as she knelt down beside him. "I always knew there was something off about you." He blinked a few times and saw the Riddler sitting at the computers. "Nigma, you're in on this too? Why am I not surprised?" Salem pressed a finger to his lips and shushed him before putting a long arm around his shoulders.

"Officer, how many inmates do you think are currently incarcerated on Arkham Island?" she asked. "Go ahead. A rough estimate is acceptable." She watched as Cash tried to get up, but she was too focused on him now. He was held in place. He grunted, then glared up at her.

"Three-hundred and seventy-two," he said. "That's how many inmates are here."

"Three-hundred and seventy-two," she repeated, "criminally insane inmates. And of those, nearly two dozen are...What is it they calls us, Edward?"

"I believe the term is 'super criminals,'" the Riddler chimed in. Salem nodded.

"Ah, yes...'super criminals' much like Mr. Nigma and I," she continued. She tapped a finger to her chin. "What do you think will happen when I let them all out at once?" Cash glared over at her.

"You wouldn't," he said.

"Oh, but I would," Salem said. "And they will descend upon Gotham like a plague of locusts, destroying everything in their path." He shook his head.

"You're sick, Ellis," he said. It was Salem's turn to shake her head.

"No, just informed," she said. She hugged Cash closer to her. She could feel his discomfort even though he was rooted in place. "You see, I once smashed open a man's head just to see what was inside. It was red: the color of the devil. And you know what I realized then, Officer Cash? That the devil is real...He's just inside all of us. And today, hell will empty, because the devils are all here." She paused as the Riddler's keystrokes grew slower and fewer. He half-swivled around in the chair and caught her gaze. He nodded. She smirked and pulled Cash even closer, her hand grabbing the back of his head.

"And as that despairing thought overtakes you, Officer," she continued, "revel in the fact that because you underestimated me, you'll be unleashing the worst devil of them all." She put her mouth up next to his ear and whispered,

" _Welcome to hell_."

She slammed his head down into the floor just as the Riddler hit a button on the console. Outside, all of the doors in minimum security swung open simultaneously and a herd of startled and confused inmates scrambled out into the hall. They stared at each other blankly for a brief moment before they all turned and rushed the door at once. Once the majority of them were gone, the Riddler darted to his feet and grabbed Salem by the arm in a grip that was surprisingly strong.

"Follow me," he said. Salem pushed the one pistol into his free hand and pulled the other out of her pants. Screams and gunshots rang out in the distance as the guards desperately tried to reinstate order. The Riddler paused in the hall and stared at the bodies of the dead and unconscious men in mute surprise, then they were out the door and into the labyrinthine belly of Arkham Asylum.


	7. Freedom

Almost the minute they were out the door the power cut off with _snap_ , plunging them into a few moments of total darkness. Red emergency lights clicked on seconds later, though they were spaced far apart and their light only extended in a small radius from their origins. The Riddler rolled his eyes.

"Why do they _always_ do this?" he asked no one in particular. "Every time there's a breakout, some lummox has to turn the lights off." The hallway was in shambles, with bodies, police batons, papers, spent shell casings, and other such things littering the floor in the wake of the patients' stampede. Screams and gunshots echoed from somewhere up ahead, but the winding, cavernous interior of Arkham Asylum made it hard to pinpoint where they were coming from. Salem paused and blinked as her one good eye tried desperately to focus in the gloom; it always overcompensated in the dark. Try as she might to be subtle about it, the Riddler still took notice.

"Vision troubles?" Salem glared and brushed passed him as she started up the hall. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, a shape peeled away from the dark shadows along the wall and a thin beam of light dazzled her eyes.

"Stop right there inmates!" a guard barked. "Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air!" Salem squinted and saw the grizzled, bloodied face of the Arkham guard and his outstretched assault rifle come into focus. He wore a bullet-proof vest and a riot helmet, but neither of those things would protect him now.

Salem's left hand shot out towards the guard, then swiped quickly to the left. The guard flew sideways and crashed against the wall with a hard _thwack_ , tracking the movement of her arm; he jerked across to the opposite wall and struck it even harder when she flung her arm back to the right. The guard fell to the floor in a heap.

"Fascinating," the Riddler whispered behind her. A wave of dizziness washed over her then and she stumbled as she sought to reestablish her equilibrium. She groped in the darkness until she found the Riddler's shoulder, which she clasped to steadied herself. Her pistol clattered to the floor as her hand flew up to her throbbing temples.

_Shit_.

"Now what?" the Riddler asked. While he sounded more annoyed than concerned, he still made no move to bat her hand away. To an outside observer her behavior seemed odd, but to Salem it was concerning. It had been over two weeks since she had used her powers so liberally, and her brain was now reminding her of her limits. If she ignored that warning, she would regret it.

"I'm fine," Salem growled, shoving herself away from the Riddler and walking towards the guard's corpse. She picked up the rifle.

"You know, your name is highly ironic," the Riddler remarked. "Salem. Derived from Hebrew, meaning peaceful. You are anything but peaceful." She whirled on him.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Peaceful. Adjective. Decidedly lacking in war and violence," he replied. He gestured at the body on the floor. "I see no lack of violence here." Salem rolled her eyes and continued up the hall, the Riddler chattering behind her.

"Salem is also an unusual name, at least for a person. For a place, however, it's exceedingly common. There are thirty municipalities throughout America with the name."

"I can be peaceful," Salem said, a little offended that he thought the opposite. "Give me a good book, a cigarette, and a cappuccino from that place I like and I'll sit peaceful as can be all morning."

"Which place is that?" the Riddler asked.

"Adeline's," she replied. "22nd and Broad Avenue. They sometimes draw cute little pictures in the foam."

"Ah yes, I'm familiar with the place. They have good coffee. And their chocolate croissants aren't bad either." Salem couldn't help but smile; how odd that they would discuss a coffee shop while they were attempting to break out of prison. Still, it helped ease her nerves.

"I'll have to try the-" Salem began, but she was suddenly cut off as she felt one of the Riddler's hands clamp over her mouth and his other arm snake around her belly, pulling her back against him. They backed up a few paces and keeping his hand over her mouth, she heard him open a door and back into it. He shut it as soon as they were both inside. Though she couldn't really see in the dark, Salem could feel the narrow walls close in on them, and the space smelled slightly of old water and soap. A broom closet, perhaps? She was about to bite down on his hand when she heard something rather large shuffling about outside.

"Don't move," he hissed in her ear.

There was a small glass window pane in the door, perhaps so guards could check and see if any inmates were hiding inside without having to open the door. Outside, the red emergency lights flickered ominously as a shadow appeared on the opposite wall. Though the shadow danced wildly in the unstable light, it was growing steadily larger. The clank of chains followed the sound of heavy footsteps, and then a huge, broad-shouldered form lurched around the corner. The light glinted off of scaly, muscle-bound arms and shoulders, and what glimpses of the face Salem could catch were certainly more reptilian than human. The beast dragged behind it the half-eaten corpse of an Arkham guard, leaving a wake of blood and scraps of innards.

Killer Croc.

Despite herself, Salem backed away from the door, pressing herself closer to the Riddler and he seemed to reflexively hug her tighter to him. Both of them froze and seemed to hold their breath. Salem could hear the narrator from some late-night nature documentary mention that crocodiles could see in the dark; had Killer Croc inherited such a skill? She tightened her finger on the trigger of the rifle, though she was fairly certain it wouldn't do her any good against that monster. Croc paused and sniffed at the air before continuing down the path that she and the Riddler had just came from. They stayed huddled in the closet until the sound of Killer Croc's footsteps disappeared entirely, then they let out the collective breath they were holding in unison.

"Waylon has a knack for distracting the guards," the Riddler said. "I figured I should let him out too." Salem extricated herself from his gangly arms and turned to face him with an intended sneer, but she tripped over a mop in the process and instead fell into him.

"Son of a-" she growled as he helped to right her. She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Grab me like that again and I'll rip your arms off."

"I just saved you from being mauled by an eleven foot-tall crocodile," he returned. "The least you can do is thank me." Salem opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it and instead opened the closet door and half-fell out of it. Arguing with Edward Nigma would only waste time, but she had a feeling that she could still get one over on him. She tugged her shirt down and flipped her hair over her shoulder as the Riddler crawled out after her, then turned and glanced him over with an air of nonchalance.

"If you wanted to meet me in a broom closet all you had to do was ask," she said as she shouldered her rifle and started back up the hall. She knew what was happening behind her even though she couldn't see it, and she chuckled under her breath. He took a moment to process what she said and what she meant by it, then sputtered and darted after her.

"Now see here," he said, "I am a man of class and principle. I'm insulted that you think I would be so crass for even a moment! What do you think I am, one of these garden variety single-minded cretins that lamentably frequent this establishment? Miss Ellis, I -" Salem chuckled.

"Slow down there cowboy, I was joking," she said. She paused, then added, "Thank you. You probably just saved my life."

"Of course I did," he said. "If I hadn't dragged you into that closet you would've been Killer Croc's new toothpick. And leave the comedy act to Joker. You're not very good at it."

They turned a corner and heard commotion from up ahead. Flailing shadows writhed on the opposite wall as gunfire flashed between them. The Riddler grabbed her hand and dragged her back a pace.

"This way," he said, and they doubled back on themselves until they reached a side passage. "The ductwork in this dump is big enough for a man to crawl through," he explained, leading her to a grate in the wall. "Rip this out and we can bypass whatever is going on up there." Salem's head was still throbbing, though not as bad as before.

"That's probably not a good idea," she remarked. When he rolled his eyes at her she wanted to smack him. "I'm still just a human being, you ass. I have limits." He sighed.

"Lamentably so," he agreed.

"Sorry to disappoint," she snarled as she turned to go back to where they were. The Riddler grabbed her arm in a grip that was surprisingly strong.

"Let me spell this situation out for you, my punitive friend," he said. "If we go that way, we will end up right in the middle of an altercation. Do you have any way of knowing who's fighting who? Or why? I don't know about you, but strolling into the middle of the battlefield without knowing who's on which side isn't exactly intelligent behavior. And while you seem intent on storming around here like some relentless juggernaut, it's become increasingly clear that you are reaching the limits of your otherwise fascinating powers. Is it wise to go charging in there when your best line of defense is rapidly depleating?" She had to admit that he had a point. She shrugged off his hand and walked over to the grate. It was attached to the wall with very large but very old iron bolts that theoretically would give way to enough pressure. She tried focusing on them but felt the dizziness come again. She grasped the bars and shook her head to try and dispel it, but to no effect.

"What happens if you persist past the dizzy spell?" the Riddler asked. There was an almost childlike note of curiosity in his voice.

Rather than answer him, Salem gripped the iron bars tighter and focused harder on the grate. She felt it rattle under her hands, slightly at first, then more violently. The rusted bolts groaned in protest, but she felt the metal bending. The bolts broke with a metallic shriek, and she slid the grate to the side. Without the grate to support her, Salem fell forward and felt something hot drip down her face; looking down, she saw large drops of blood spatter on the floor. She groaned and pushed herself into a sitting position as her head began to throb. She grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up to help staunch the steady stream of blood that was issuing out of her nose. It felt as if every nerve in her head was throbbing uncontrollably and her eyes hurt. Surprisingly, the Riddler knelt down beside her and offered a steadying hand.

"Pinch your nose and tilt your head back," he said. "Trust me, I've had my fair share of nosebleeds courtesy of Batman." She followed his advice, and moments later the blood ceased to flow. She wiped at her nose with the back of her wrist and scowled when it came away with a swatch of crimson.

"I've never tried continuing to use my powers past this point," she said, "But, my hypothesis is that if I continued I would hemorrhage my brain." She adjusted the rifle on her shoulder and stared into the yawning mouth of the ductwork in front of her, wondering if this mad plan of hers was a huge mistake after all.

She remembered very little of the rest of their journey, execpt that there was a disconcerting amount of spiderwebs in the air ducts and enough dust in there to make both of them sneeze. The air ducts ended in what appeared to be a maintenance room, and it took both of them to kick the grate out so they could climb down. The drop couldn't have been more than a few feet, but Salem still slipped out on her way down and landed directly on top of the Riddler. He swore as they tried to untangle themselves from each other.

"You're on my hair," she snapped.

"Well your hip bone is grinding into my stomach!" he returned. "Ow, stop moving!"

"Yeah well you're a bony son of a bitch too," Salem grumbled as she pushed herself to her feet. She adjusted the assault rifle on her shoulder and offered him a hand. He scowled at her with his glasses sitting askew on his face, but he still took her hand and struggled to his feet. He adjusted his glasses and smoothed out his hair, then pointed at the door.

"This should lead us outside," he said. "You're sure your man will be waiting?" She nodded.

"If he's not I give you free reign to dump me in the bay," she replied.

A blast of cool Gotham air hit them as they opened the door and stepped out into an overcast afternoon. A fine mist of rain prickled their skin and a cool breeze, salty from the bay, ruffled their hair. Though the sun was hidden behind gray clouds, the natural light still dazzled their eyes, and it took them both a moment for their vision to adjust to the outside world. Salem had never felt so invigorated in her entire life.

The courtyard of the Asylum was in shambles. Bodies were scattered about, and the windows of the guard stations were broken out. The doors to Intensive Treatment were flung open and barely hanging onto their hinges. One lunatic, his arms still wrapped in the tight embrace of a straitjacket, was running about laughing manically. Most of the men still standing seemed to be preoccupied with looting. Salem cocked her rifle and the two of them darted across the lawn, making for the front gate.

James was waiting for them on the other side of the gate, the car's engine still running. An unfamiliar man with greasy blonde hair sat in the passenger's seat, a shotgun in hand. Salem heaved a sigh of relief when she saw James's familiar face. He was older than her but still handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes. He was smoking when they approached, but he hefted his own shotgun and blasted the lock on the gate; it fell away in a shower of sparks, opening the way to freedom. James's expression darkened when he saw the ugly bruise and the dried blood no doubt smeared across Salem's face. He turned a suspicious eye on the Riddler.

"James, he's with me," she said, noticing his finger tightening on the trigger. "Let's get out of here. I've had enough of this place." James grunted and got into the driver's seat while they clambered into the back.

"Boss this is Alfie," James said, nodding at the guy beside him. "He joined up last week after I got your note."

"Sorry about the delay," Salem said as he pulled the car around with screeching tires. "An orderly decided to pick a fight with me." She gestured at the bruise on her face. "Hopefully you weren't waiting for too long."

"We hung around the docks," he replied. "The asylum's sirens were loud enough to be heard from across the bay, just like you said."

"A whole fuckin' week," Alfie grumbled under his breath. Salem wondered where James dug this idiot up, but she made a note to talk about him later. She didn't like him already.

"Nobody told me that we were giving the Riddler loser a ride too," the new guy continued, casting him a disgusted look through the rear view mirror. Salem couldn't tell if the fool intended for everyone to hear him or not, but she saw a look of pained anger spread across the Riddler's face as his hands clenched into fists. She reached around the headrest and slammed the man's head up against the passenger window. He yelped and tried to pull back, but she just slammed him into the glass again. James continued to drive on, stone-faced.

"Listen here you gutter rat," she said. "This man has my respect. Therefore, he has your respect too. Understood?" The man squirmed in his seat.

"R-Right boss, whatever you say!" he exclaimed. She let go of him and settled back into her seat, cradling the assault rifle in her lap. The Riddler gave her an odd look, something between astonishment and confusion.

"You...Respect me?" he asked. Salem glanced over at him and shrugged.

"You proved yourself to be clever and dependable," she replied. "And you saved my life at least twice. That's worthy of my respect in my book." She thought she saw some color flush his cheeks, but he quickly recovered and gave her a haughty look.

"Of course you respect me," he said. "As your intellectual superior, it's only natural." Salem chuckled and watched as the trees streaked by outside, the next step of her plan already beginning to form in her mind.


	8. My Name is Ozymandias

Commissioner Gordon stood amidst the carnage of Arkham Asylum, his face wreathed in smoke from his cigarette. He'd tried to quite a thousand times, but this job was just so stressful he found himself returning to nicotine's comforting embrace time and again. He knew it disappointed Barbara, but he couldn't stop himself.

When he got the call that there had been a mass breakout at Arkham, he was certain that the Joker was behind it. He always was, wasn't he? That madman had turned getting out of here into some sort of twisted, chaotic game. Imagine his surprise when he learned that it was Salem Ellis and the Riddler of all people who were responsible for this latest escapade. True, Nigma was usually involved in mass breakouts, but always as an escapee, not the mastermind behind it. And Ellis? She was just some terrorist, wasn't she? At least, that's what she led them all to believe. Now, as he was listening to Cash's story, Gordon realized that she'd played them for fools.

"I can't explain it Jim," Cash said. He was holding a cold compress to his forehead. One of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. "It was like she was holding me down without touching me. I couldn't move, no matter how hard I tried. But you saw her! There's no way that little spindly thing could be that strong."

Gordon was suddenly aware of a presence behind him and he turned to see a towering black form standing in the doorway. Even after all of these years, Batman's sudden, startling appearances made his heart skip a beat. He rolled his eyes.

"I hate it when you do that," he grumbled. "But I'm glad to see you."

"Who got out?" Batman asked in his typical brusque manner. Gordon sighed.

"The usual suspects," he replied. "Joker, Harley Quinn, Dent, Crane, Nigma, Ivy, and Salem Ellis."

"The church bomber?"

"That's the one," Gordon said. "Seems like she was the one behind all of this." Gordon saw Batman's eyes narrow.

"She got Nigma to hack into the computers. She was the muscle of the operation," Cash chimed in. He shook his head. "I knew there was something odd about her. I just didn't think it would be this bad."

"What do you mean?" Batman asked. Cash nodded over to four forms covered by black sheets emblazoned with the GCPD logo. A crime scene technician stood over them jotting down notes on a clipboard. Batman moved over to them and touched a finger to the side of his cowl, scanning the victims.

"Two of them died from gunshot wounds," the tech said, clutching his clipboard to his chest and staring at Batman warily. "The other two died of what I'm calling blunt force trauma. Their necks were broken in a way that is consistent with whiplash."

"They were thrown?" Batman asked.

"With extreme force," the tech replied. "I would expect injuries like these from Bane or even Killer Croc."

"This woman's a hundred pounds soaking wet, Batman," Cash said. "But she did something to me before she slammed my face into the floor. I don't know what it was, but it felt like a gorilla was holding me down. I couldn't move."

"Don't worry, I'll bring her back," Batman said. "Her and the rest of them." He turned in a flurry of cape and strode out of the room, his fingers pressing the comm link button in his cowl.

"Oracle. Get me everything you can on Salem Ellis."

*

The streets of Gotham seemed louder and more crowded than usual, but Salem attributed it to the time spent cooped up in the asylum. Though she had only been in there a week, the period of quiet and isolation made her more sensitive to the clamor of the city around her. Natural light hurt her eyes, so even now she wore a pair of sunglasses with opaque orange lenses, both to block the sun and to shield her tell-tale eyes from any onlookers. She watched throngs of people scurry down the sidewalks as they crawled by in James's black sedan, oblivious to the fact that an escaped maniac was in the car right next to them. But amongst the taxis and the delivery trucks, this car was just like the rest: unassuming, even normal.

"Boss, they're talking about you," Larry said as he turned up the volume on the radio. Sure enough, Jack Ryder's grating voice filled the car.

**_Most of the inmates escaped from Arkham are still at large, so citizens of Gotham are advised to proceed throughout their day with caution. No new developments have been released about the breakout at this time, but you can rest assured that we'll be the first to report on it when they do! Stay tuned listeners, as Doctor Penelope Young, esteemed psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, gives us her stunning psychoanalysis of Gotham's newest threat, the Salem Witch at 5!_ **

"Turn that shit off," she snarled, turning to stare out the window again in a huff.

The Salem Witch. Ryder was the one who gave her that idiotic moniker, and she had heard it repeated countless times in the days following her escape. If it wasn't Jack Ryder barking it on the airwaves, it was Vicki Vale yammering about it on the television. She supposed they thought themselves terribly clever for it, but Salem thought it was the dumbest thing she had ever heard.

"I kinda like it," James remarked, flashing her a smirk in the rear view mirror. "The Salem Witch. It's got a ring to it."

"Pull over here," Salem said, ignoring him. Once he put the car in park she flung the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. She pulled her long dark trenchcoat tighter around her against the afternoon chill, then walked to the passenger side window. James rolled it down.

"You know what to do," she said.

"Just like we practiced," James said. "I'll be waiting." Salem nodded and started walking up the street, her boots ringing against the sidwalk with every step. She shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders, hoping no one would recognize her. Her mug shot was plastered across every front page, alongside pictures of the rest of Gotham's most wanted. It was incredibly foolish of her being out on the street in broad daylight with so many eyes to catch a glimpse of her, but Salem couldn't find any other way to enact her plan.

Larry was always home at night.

She kept her head down as she passed one of the many cameras GCPD had perched on telephone poles and streetlights then picked up her pace once she was beyond its sight. She ducked down an alley and cut over to the next street. The buildings here were older, their tired, weathered faces showing their age. General city litter fluttered about at her feet as she walked and she saw more than a few empty liquor bottles in the gutters. A grizzled cat arched its back at her and hissed before darting away. A homeless man shuffled down the sidewalk across the street, but other than that it was oddly quiet here. She watched the street numbers as she went: _1132_ , _1134_ , _1136_.

Salem stopped in front of 1138. Some graffiti tags decorated the front of the building and there was a pile of black trash bags outside of the door. She heard a woman yelling in an unfamiliar language coming from one of the apartments inside. The building was managed by Bayside Realty, a rental agency known to be a real slumlord, so Salem was certain there were no extraneous security measures within. Larry's apartment was 32, on the third floor. She checked her watch and nodded; in the wake of his suspension Larry had taken up a daytime bartending job downtown, and he wouldn't be home for another two hours. Plenty of time.

She was greeted by an overwhelming stale aroma when she opened the door and stepped into the foyer. To her left rusted mail boxes sat in the wall, a pile of letters scattered across the floor. Stairs spiraled up to the floors above. Salem pulled a pack of cigarettes from her coat and put one in her mouth. As she was fishing around in her pocket for her lighter, a nearby door opened and an old woman eyed her suspiciously.

"You lookin' for somebody?" she demanded as Salem pulled her Zippo from her pocket.

"I'm here for Berkowitz," she replied, lighting her cigarette. The woman arched an eyebrow.

"Upstairs," she said. She looked Salem up and down. "Though take it from me, honey. You should lay off the pills and eat a burger instead." The old woman shut her door. Salem chuckled as she started up the stairs. As if Larry wasn't disgusting enough, she discovered that he was pinching pills from the asylum and selling them on the side. Her build made her look like an addict; might as well play that angle so no one would be suspicious.

When she reached the front door of apartment 32, Salem glanced up and down the hall before placing an ear up against the door and listening. All was quiet inside. She pulled a lockpicking kit from her pocket and scrutinized the lock before selecting the appropriate tools. The lock was old and it was painfully easy to spring. The door swung in with a creak, and Salem pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head as she stepped into Larry's apartment. It was a tiny, one-room affair and in the typical state of chaos that characterized slovenly single men. She wrinkled her nose at the prevalence of dirty dishes and empty takeout boxes scattered about, and she shuddered as a particularly large black cockaroach scuttled across the floor. She shut the door behind her and walked the perimeter of the room, taking particular note of the stack of pornography magazines by the dirty mattress in the corner.

"Not a single book to be found," she lamented aloud. "No wonder I don't like you." She picked up one of the magazines and flipped through it, glancing at all of the perfectly curvaceous, perfectly airbrushed women in lewd poses before putting it back down. Salem opened the drawer of his bedside table and rifled through the things there, taking note of a few objects of interest. She then studied the lumpy armchair, and finding it at least somewhat acceptable, flopped down into it. Salem looked up at a crack in the ceiling and sighed. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

She must have dozed off, because she was startled awake by a jingle of keys outside the door. Sitting up, she checked her watch and saw that Larry was right on time. Salem considered standing, but decided against it at the last moment. The lock flipped and she watched as the doorknob turned. Once she caught him in her sights, Salem focused on him, and Larry suddenly came flying into the room, skidding across the dirty carpet until his head slammed into the opposite wall.

*

"Laaaaarryyyyyy. C'mon Larry, I know you aren't dead." Her voice came floating out of the dizzying darkness. It was a familiar voice, tinged by years of whiskey and cigarettes, though in his haze he was having a hard time recalling a face. Suddenly he was jolted awake by a sharp blow to his face. His eyes snapped open and he came face to face with her. The Salem Witch. The smile she gave him was sickening and he tried to yell, but only muffled sounds came out. He realized that she had his ball gag tightly strapped to his face, his chin wet with saliva as it dribbled out. His arms hurt, and he saw that she had him strung up to the ceiling. He tried to yank free, but the knots were too tight. He stared at her with wide-eyed panic.

"Did you miss me?" she asked. Her eyes. Those freaky, two-colored eyes of hers gave him the chills. He tried to speak, but the gag was too tight. "Oh, I know you missed me," she continued. "That's why I decided to stop by. And then I found all of these toys in your nightstand, and I decided it was time to play." She reached inside of her trenchcoat and pulled out a switchblade. The slender, sharp blade popped out with a click. She placed the tip of the blade against his stubbled cheek and ran it down his face, drawing a thin line of blood as it went. She saw tears spring into his eyes.

"Oh, what's the matter? Don't you want to play?" she asked. "But you were so keen on it in the asylum!" She pulled the knife away and watched as a thin rivulet of blood ran down it. "But you didn't use your big boy words and ask, now did you? Not that I would've said yes. You're not really my type." She looked back up at him.

"Maybe you're scared because I'm a homicidal maniac. But then again, you knew that in the asylum. Oh! I get it: you're frightened because you've come to the realization that you can't overpower me. Is that it, Larry? Are you scared because I'm the one in control now?" She grabbed his crotch and squeezed as hard as she could. He yelped and tears dripped down his cheeks. "Now you know how I felt when you came into my cell, you disgusting son of a bitch." She looked down at the switchblade and suddenly looked disappointed by it. She shoved it back into her pocket and reached into her coat again, this time drawing out an even bigger knife, the kind that hunters used to skin their prey. She placed the tip of the knife against his side and began to walk around him, dragging the knife along his midsection as she went.

"Do you know what a sadist is, Larry?" she asked as she went around behind him. All he could make were muffled noises. She came back to face him. "Hm. I suppose that word's too big for you. A sadist is someone who derives pleasure from inflicting pain on others." Without warning she plunged the knife into his side and gave it a cruel twist. Hot blood sprayed on her arm as Larry's muffled screams filled the room. She brought her mouth up to his ear.

"And boy am I going to have a lot of fun with you."

He passed out after the fifth stab wound, which was unfortunate. Salem was hoping that he would last at least a little longer. It made it hard to gauge when he actually died, though she was sure it was after stab eight or nine. She stepped back and looked his corpse up and down, at the blood that oozed out of him like red water to saturate the carpet below.

"Revenge is a bitch," she said, tapping the knife against his chest. Rage overcame her then and she slammed the knife into his flesh once again. Lukewarm blood splattered across her face. She stepped back and wiped at her face with the back of her hand, memories of that night mingling with the anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She looked down at the pool of blood seeping into the carpet and knelt down. She dipped a finger in it and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, her gaze going to the empty wall behind her. She stood and drew her bloody finger across the wall, making the letter M. Back and forth she walked, from corpse to wall, each time drawing a new letter. When she was finished, she stepped back and surveyed her work.

 _My name is Ozymandias_ it read in dripping red letters. Satisfied, she washed the blood off of her hands and face in the kitchen sink, then left, not even bothering to shut the door. She wanted them to find him, to know that she was the one responsible. For some time now she had stayed hidden in the shadows, committed her crimes from the comfortable distance afforded by bombs. But no more. She was done with hiding from the police, from Batman. Let them give her all the stupid names they wanted, so long as they learned to fear her. So much of her life had been lived in abject terror; now it was time for them to feel that same fear. As she walked down the stairs, lighting another cigarette as she went, the rest of the poem's stanza came back to her:

_My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:_

_Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!_


	9. A Confederacy of Criminals

The apartment was rented under one of James's many false identities, hence why the police hadn't been able to find it when Salem was arrested. It wasn't a fancy place, but it had a separate bedroom and a bathroom that consistently had hot water, so she couldn't really complain too loudly, even if the view outside her window was of the neighboring building's brick wall. She had called this apartment home since first coming to Gotham three years ago, and she was glad that the cops remained ignorant of its existence; moving was a pain.

She sat on the sofa with her knees folded up against her chest, a glass of bourbon in one hand and _The Wind Up Bird Chronicle_ in the other. James and two of his men, Ben and Gerald, sat at the kitchen table playing cards. Jazz music played softly from the stereo as rain pattered against the window outside. To an onlooker, it hardly seemed like Salem was the sort to have killed a man earlier that day. She glanced up from her book at the men, her eyes lingering on James.

They went far back, the two of them, and he was probably the only person alive that Salem harbored any real feelings for. Not romantic, mind you; James was more like the big brother she never had. She dated his little sister Elise in college, and Salem remembered how he'd clapped her on the back when Elise told him that she was her girlfriend. James lived in Gotham, working odd jobs to pay his way. Like Salem, he'd clashed with his religious parents. Unlike her, he never killed them. When his parents sent Elise away, to that terrible place in an effort to "cure" her of her "homosexual inclinations", James grew to resent them more. After Elise committed suicide, he stopped talking to them altogether. He saw the same thing that Salem did: that religion poisoned people and ruined lives. That's why he followed her. The other guys just did it for the money. Salem never asked how James managed to pay them, but she had a feeling it had something to do with his "odd jobs."

All of them jumped when someone knocked at the apartment door, rapping out the tune of _Shave and a haircut, two bits!_ She exchanged glances with the men and they shrugged, indicating that they weren't expecting someone. Setting her drink and her book on the coffee table, Salem stood and went to the door, tensing in anticipation in case she had to utilize her powers. She opened it to find a young woman on the other side of the door, her blonde hair pulled up in the sort of high pigtails Salem hadn't seen since elementary school. She wore a pair of red leggings and a black crop top, and she flashed a big, toothy grin before shoving a folded piece of paper into Salem's hands.

"You're invited to a meetin'!" she exclaimed. Her high-pitched voice carried a heavy accent; was that a borough of Gotham, or New Jersey she heard? The other woman jabbed a finger at the paper. "All the info's there, includin' the address. Hope ta see ya there! Toodles!" She waggled her fingers at Salem before turning and skipping off down the hall. The silence following her loud voice and boisterous energy was almost deafening.

"Who was that boss?" James asked, coming to stand behind her and peer out into the empty hall. Salem scowled and opened the note, which she noticed was addressed to the Salem Witch. It was written in a large, loopy script with what appeared to be a purple glitter gel pen. Just as the woman promised, there was a time (11 PM) and an address (Gotham Shipyard, Warehouse 13). Down at the bottom, in all caps, was written DON'T BE LATE! AND COME ALONE with a crude smiley face sticking its tongue out at her. She took particular note of the face's jester's hat and she felt her heart tighten in her chest.

"I...I think that was Harley Quinn." Salem shut the door and looked at the men seated around her kitchen table with a mixture of amazement and confusion.

"Harley Quinn?" James exclaimed. He looked as if he were about to drop his beer bottle. The other guys exchanged glances. "You mean to tell me _Harley_ fucking _Quinn_ was just at the door?" The implications of her arrival were enough to make Salem nervous as well. If Harley knew where to find her, then that meant her boyfriend did too. She folded the note up again and slapped it against the palm of her hand, her mind racing.

"What's the note say?" Ben asked, taking a sip of his beer.

"I'm invited to a meeting," Salem replied. "I'm not entirely sure what that means in this case." She was more than a little uncomfortable with that proposition. One did not simply meet with the Joker.

"Nuh-uh," James said emphatically. "You'd be walking into a den of vipers if you go." She opened the note again and pointed at the bottom.

"But it says to not be late," she said. James was not amused by her sarcasm. He snatched the piece of paper away from her and glanced at it before crumpling it in his palm.

"This ain't no small-time mob boss asking you to come by for a sit-down," he said, adopting that brotherly tone that annoyed her so. "This is _the Joker_. The Clown Prince of Crime. The one guy that even Batman can barely deal with. He's a grade A psychopath. I knew a couple guys who worked for him once, and let's just say they ain't around no more." Salem wrenched the crumpled paper out of his hand and smoothed it out on the top of the couch.

"If I don't go, I'll appear weak," she snapped. "I can take care of myself, James. I'm not some kid you have to protect any more." He looked as if he were ready to argue, but he glanced over at the guys at the table and thought better of it. He lifted the beer bottle to his lips and chugged the last bit of it.

"Fine," he grumbled. "It's your funeral." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I ain't driving you to your own funeral."

*

The docks were lonely and grim late at night, the pervasive silence broken only by the sound of the waves crashing against the wooden pilings. A heavy fog rolled in from the bay, turning all of the street lamps into pallid fairy lights. Out in the deeper water, a bouy's bell rang what could've been a death knell as Salem walked amongst the hulking forms of the dock warehouses. She kept a tight grip on the sawed-off shotgun she carried, feeling like an outlaw in the Wild West approaching a noontime shootout against the sheriff. Every tiny movement and sound set her on edge, and once she swung the shotgun around to bear on the largest rat she'd ever seen. The rodent glared at her with beady eyes before scampering off into the darkness.

She reached Warehouse 13 without incident, but she lingered outside as long as she dared, smoking a cigarette with trembling hands. News reports of Joker's past escapades ran through her mind like newspapers in a microfilm reader, punctuated by grim photos of grinning faces pockmarked by acid. She side-eyed the entry door as her cigarette burned low, wondering if she would walk into a cloud of his deadly laughing gas the minute she opened it. Could Joker really just want to talk to her? She doubted it. Flicking the smoldering butt into the shadows, Salem shouldered her shotgun and approached the door.

"Get it together," she muttered under her breath before she opened it and stepped inside. Her heart nearly leaped into her throat when she encountered not just the Joker, but an entire crowd of bodies nestled amongst stacks of crates, all of their eyes turned to her.

In the dim, half-lit warehouse, Salem came face-to-face with the kings and queens of the Gotham underworld. Dramatic shadows cut across the ruined half of Harvey Dent's face, the acid-seared flesh glistening as if it were wet. The eye on that side had no eyelids, and it rolled in its socket every time he blinked. There was a metallic sound, and she saw his coin glimmer as it flew up, spun twice, then landed in his palm. Penguin sat next to him, perched on a cot and fingering a large cigar. His signature umbrella sat within an easy reach, and Salem wondered what sort of weapon this one contained -a gun, perhaps? Poison Ivy stood across from them, her slender arms folded across her chest, apparently disinterested.

An impossibly lanky shadow peeled itself away from the darkness as Jonathan Crane came into view. Resplendent in his Scarecrow regalia, Salem could still feel his eyes boring holes straight through her from behind the burlap mask he wore. Could he tell she was terrified? She glanced down at his gauntlet of hypodermic needles and swallowed.

The Riddler was there as well, having exchanged his khaki Arkham uniform for his characteristic green suit and bowler hat. He leaned heavily on a gold, question mark-shaped cane and made a show of looking incredibly bored. He gave her a tiny nod as a greeting when he met her gaze.

And in the middle of them all stood Joker himself, Harley Quinn peeking from around his angular shoulder. He was much taller than she anticipated, the fevered yet calculating way he looked at her far more disconcerting than anything she could imagine in her wildest nightmares. His lips were painted in a garish shade of red, and they were pulled back into that awful smile.

Here Salem stood, surrounded by the most dangerous people in Gotham and suddenly feeling very small. She felt terror sink its cold talons into her as her pulse quickened. It took everything she had to throw back her shoulders and adopt a confident posture as she met Joker's eye.

_Don't let them see you afraid_.

"Boy Harl, you weren't joking when you said she was a tall one!" the Joker exclaimed, his voice ringing in the rafters. He elbowed Scarecrow in the ribs. "Hey Crane, she your sister or something?" Even behind his mask, Salem could see the Scarecrow's look of absolute disgust.

"I was an only child," he sneered.

"So, the Salem Witch, eh?" the Joker said, turning back to her. "Nice name. Care to do a magic trick?" Beside him Harley clapped her hands as she jumped from behind him, the bells on her jester's costume jingling merrily.

"Ooo! _Pleeeeeeease_?" she exclaimed. Salem was about to say that what she did was hardly magic, but she stopped herself. She glanced around the room, looking for something innocuous to move when she heard the familiar click of a lighter and saw that the Penguin was lighting his cigar. Just as he was about to flick it closed, Salem held up her hand. Cobblepot nearly toppled off of his crate when the lighter flew out of his hand, across the room, and landed in Salem's palm just as if he'd tossed it to her. She made eye contact with the Joker as she pulled the pack of cigarettes from her pocket and fished one out. There was a burst of flame as she lit it. Turning back to the Penguin, Salem held the lighter out in her palm, then levitated it up until it was hovering a few inches in the air. It floated back across the room and settled into Cobblepot's lap like a contented cat. Harley clapped and hopped up and down.

"Bravo!" she exclaimed. "That sure was somethin' wasn't it Mistah J?"

"It sure was," the Joker replied. Salem noticed a very distinct change in his tone of voice, and the way he studied her made her skin crawl.

"How'd you do it?" the Penguin croaked, examining his lighter as if it had suddenly become a totally different one. Salem tapped at the side of her head.

"Mind over matter, Mr. Cobblepot," she replied, making a quick decision to keep the mechanics of her abilities vague. She thought she saw the Riddler pocket something in his green blazer, but she couldn't see what it was. He tapped a finger on the side of his jaw, deep in thought.

"Well... _Slim_ , we just wanted to get a good look at you," the Joker said, adjusting his jacket. "It's not every day we get a new freak at the freakshow!" He giggled at what Salem assumed was his joke, though she was having a hard time finding what was so humorous; then again, wasn't that the point? He flashed that rictus grin of his as he began to walk around her like a circling shark. Salem tightened the grip on her shotgun, but remained still. She dropped her smoldering cigarette butt to the floor and ground it under her boot.

"I assumed as much," she said, choking down the waver in her voice. "I'm not here to cause any problems."

"Then what are you here for?" Poison Ivy asked, her voice silky.

"My message," Salem replied, not taking her eyes off the Joker.

"Ah yes, your neo-nihilist conquest of God," the Scarecrow said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Salem didn't like the mocking undertones in his voice.

"You don't understand," she snarled. "You didn't go through what I did."

"Who says I didn't?" Crane returned with a vehemence that startled her.

"We just want to protect our assets," the Penguin interjected, leaning forward to escape the cloud of cigar smoke that wreathed his plump frame. "Make sure you won't be a threat to our operations."

"I can assure you that we have very different interests," Salem said. "I realize that this is your town-" She never saw where the gun came from, all she saw was the muzzle of the pistol pointed at her face, the Joker grinning on the other side of it.

"You're damn right about that, Slim," he said. "I'm glad we're at an understanding." It was so quiet in the warehouse that she could hear Penguin's cigar smoldering across the room. She dropped her shotgun and put both of her hands up in the air, then closed her eyes and turned around so that her back was to him. His confusion was palpable.

"If I can't see you, I can't hurt you," she said. She tapped at the side of her head to indicate her powers. "I came here with respect. I don't want any trouble." Still, she felt the muzzle of the gun press against the back of her neck. There was a click as Joker cocked it.

"Blow up all the churches you want," he said, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Hell, fill the streets of Gotham with the blood of priests, who am I to care? But let's get one thing straight, missy: breakouts at Arkham are my gig, got it?" He pressed the gun harder into her neck.

"And if you so much as put a toe out of line, I'll blow your damn head off."

"I understand," Salem replied as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her head. The muzzle of the gun lingered for a few tense moments before it was lifted and Joker's laugh rang in her ears.

"Glad we understand each other then!" he said. "Go on now, off you go. Uncle Joker's got some business to attend to." Salem wanted to snatch up her gun and bolt, but she forced herself to calmly retrieve her firearm and turn to face the Joker once more. She nodded a silent farewell, then strode out of the room just as she had entered it: with her shoulders back and her chin up.

Once she was out the door and into the cool, misty air, she darted around the corner and fell back against the metal warehouse wall, her pent-up emotions flooding over her. She forced herself to take deep, slow breaths to keep from hyperventilating, but she doubled over and ran shaking fingers through her hair. Her nerves felt like they were unraveling inside of her. "Jesus fucking Christ," she breathed at the pavement, trying very unsuccessfully to pull herself together.

"A theoretical physicist would have a field day with you."

The Riddler's voice startled her so badly that something between a gasp and a shriek came out of Salem's mouth as she snapped bolt-upright and dropped her shotgun. She felt as if she had leaped right out of her skin and she slammed a hand over her heart, certain that it had beat its way out of her chest.

" _Fucking hell_!" she exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?" There wasn't even a hint of apology in his voice and it turned her initial fright into anger. She considered slamming him up against the wall, but she could hardly organize her thoughts let alone use her powers. Salem ran her hands down her face before digging in her pockets for her cigarettes and her lighter. Her fingers were shaking so badly she couldn't get the lighter to strike. She heard another click and saw a burst of orange out of the corner of her eye as the Riddler held a lit Zippo out to her. Pulling her hair back, she leaned over and put the end of her cigarette into the flame. It smoldered and she inhaled the smoke, the nicotine combining with the adrenaline and producing an oddly calming effect. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, exhaling the smoke in a wavering cloud.

"Those things'll kill you, you know," the Riddler remarked, snapping the lighter shut and shoving it in his coat pocket.

"What were you saying?" Salem asked, taking another puff. "Theoretical what?"

"Theoretical physics," he replied. He pulled a small black box from his jacket and pointed it at her, studying its small read-out screen. "I remembered you saying something back at Arkham about your powers disrupting nearby electronics and it got me to thinking. Your powers seem to function on some sort of perverse level of electromagnetism. I had a feeling you'd put on a little show tonight so I brought along a meter to see if I was right. Which of course I was." He glanced up at her. "Even now in a state of rest you're giving off an abnormal amount of electromagnetic energy."

"So what does this all mean, exactly?" Salem asked. She could barely fumble through physics on a good day, and her brain, coming down from its surge of adrenaline, was uncooperative.

"That you completely shatter our modern understanding of physics," the Riddler replied. "Not very many people get to make that claim. I might even be a little jealous." Salem flicked her cigarette butt away and pushed herself away from the wall with a heavy sigh.

"I need a drink," she grumbled.

"That might be a problem. You know, because you're an escaped convict." Salem glared at him and was about to tell him to piss off when he added,

"Buuuut, I do know a place. It's owned by the mob, so they won't call the cops on you because their operation is hardly legal. However, they're unlikely to let _you_ in."

"And they'll let you in?" Salem asked. He snorted.

"Please. Half of the Gotham underground is on my payroll," he replied. "Of course they will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making heart eyes at every single one of you who've commented, given me kudos, or simply stopped by to give this a read. You all are wonderful <3


	10. Butterflies

The crime scene was eerily quiet, and the streetlights cast odd shadows on the walls as Batman crept through the window of Larry's apartment. The orderly's body might be gone, but he could still see the massive bloodstain on the carpet, marking where he was hung by his arms. Across the room, the words _My name is Ozymandias_ were starkly visible on the pallid, chipped wall. Yellow police tape criss-crossed in a giant X across the closed door. Numbered evidence markers were still scattered about, though what they marked in the photos were long gone in plastic bags.

Batman knew about Larry Berkowitz and his less than sterling reputation long before the Salem Witch arrived; truthfully he was surprised that Poison Ivy didn't get to him first. Under the guise of Bruce Wayne, esteemed member of Arkham's Board of Trustees, he'd told Warden Sharp at least a dozen times to can him following each new report of misconduct, but Larry was considered an asset to the Arkham staff and stayed. If the warden had listened and gotten rid of him before now, Larry would probably still be alive and in jail where he belonged.

He swept the crime scene with a quick scan, looking for anything that the GCPD might have missed, but he had a feeling he wouldn't find anything. The Salem Witch had purposefully made this a cut and dry case. She was more than capable of misdirecting the police; she had them convinced that she was a man during her reign of terror prior to going to Arkham, and it was only when she allowed herself to be caught that the GCPD realized their error. She was meticulous in leaving no clues in the wreckage of the bombings, but here she left her fingerprints everywhere, strands of her hair on the lumpy armchair, even the knife she used to stab Larry repeatedly. The words _My name is Ozymandias_ were even a brazen declaration of her confidence. Batman was familiar with the phrase, taken from a poem of the same name by Percy Shelley. It was taken out of context, but the message was still the same: _I did this and I'm not afraid of you._

Though Larry Berkowitz didn't constitute as her usual prey, a pattern was beginning to emerge in her behavior. The Salem Witch preferred ambushing her targets, stalking them for days at a time and planning accordingly. When she bombed the churches six months ago, she'd posed once as a building inspector and another as one of Gotham's belaugered homeless in order to scope out where her explosive charges would go to maximize her destruction. Here, it was clear she knew when Larry would be gone and exactly what time he would be back. She knew that she could present herself as a drug addict looking to score some of his pills and not garner suspicion from the neighbors. Batman had to admit she did her homework. Luckily for Gotham, so did he.

There was a chime in his cowl, signalling a call from Oracle. He pressed the comm button.

"Oracle. Tell me what you've got."

"It looks like she knew where the traffic cameras would be," Barbara said. She sounded exasperated. "I can't get a visual on the car she got out of. If she even got out of a car." Of course. He glanced around the crime scene as if the bloody words on the wall would tell him something.

"I don't get it," she continued. "What makes a Midwest girl like her do something like this?" It was a valid question, though Batman had a feeling that her mother's mysterious "suicide" had something to do with it. Gordon had requested the case file to be sent over from the Melody police, but it was woefully thin. Apparently the police arrived to find Elaine Ellis's broken body in the yard and a nineteen year-old Salem sobbing and clutching at her bloody hand. The girl was hysterical and spent the next few days at the hospital. Everyone in town knew that Elaine's mental condition had deteriorated following her husband's death, so no one questioned the verdict of suicide. The nearest neighbor was on the other side of a corn field, so there were no eyewitnesses other than Salem. The coroner's report said that there were no signs of foul play. And while the people of Melody said that Salem was a morose and odd girl, none of them suspected that she was the one who killed her mother. The detective who lead the investigation told Gordon that the case was as straightforward a suicide as it could be. Batman believed otherwise.

"She's sick," he said. He glanced at the crime scene again. "And her methods are evolving. Bombs give you distance: this was personal. And angry." Larry was stabbed ten times, and only the tenth was post-mortem. The medical examiner said that the wounds became increasingly erratic as time went on. The first few stabs were carefully placed so as to not puncture vital organs. But by the time she reached wounds eight and nine, she seemed to have lost control and stabbed right into his right lung.

"Do you think the Riddler was in on it?" Barbara asked, echoing her father's concern. Batman had considered it too until he saw the details of the murder. While both of them shared a penchant for careful planning, the Salem Witch resorted to brute force and explosive violence to achieve her ends, things that Nigma would never agree to. The Riddler would see this as woefully unrefined -most certainly not his style.

"They might have worked together to get out of Arkham," Batman said. "But I think she's on her own now. Nigma has a temper, but this level of violence is something he's not capable of." He now wished that the Riddler was involved, because he would leave a clue, challenging Batman to come find him. As it was, the Salem Witch had disappeared and there was no telling where or when she would strike again.

"Dad has police stationed at the homes of every major religious official in Gotham," Barbara said, as if she were reading his thoughts. "And there's more staking out the churches."

"What about Bishop Francis?" Batman asked. Oracle sighed.

"Dad's been trying to convince him to cancel his visit," she replied, "but he's not listening. He says he isn't afraid of a terrorist." That complicated matters. Batman had a feeling that the bishop's visit to Gotham was what facilitated the Salem Witch's speedy escape from Arkham. The Bishop was scheduled to arrive on Saturday. Today was Monday.

"Salem has to have associates," he said, turning in a flurry of cape back towards the window. "We thought she was working alone, but I'm not convinced. Start looking for friends, relatives, anyone that she could be connected to in Gotham." He hopped up into the window and pulled out his grapple gun; pointing it up at the building across from him he fired it and whipped up to the rooftops.

*

She'd done it. She'd finally lost her mind.

If Salem was still sane, she would be barricaded in her apartment with her shotgun in her lap, safe and ready for the Joker, for Batman, for whoever or whatever was going to come after her. Yet here she was, an escaped convict fresh out of a meeting with the Clown Prince of Crime, going out to drown her nerves in bourbon as if nothing were amiss. As she and the Riddler darted from her car to the door of Smokey's Bar she was sure that she'd left her rational mind somewhere in the halls of Arkham, because what she was doing certainly wasn't rational.

Smokey's was somewhere between a respectable bar and a dive, dimly lit and smelling of liquor and cigarettes. Jazz music played softly from a jukebox in the corner, and the walls were decorated with faded prints of Alphonse Mucha's illustrations. A huge bear of a man slid out of his booth by the door and approached them, pulling a cigar from his mouth. He was vaguely Italian, with calloused hands as large as catcher's mitts. He looked slightly panicked.

"M-Mr. Riddler sir!" he exclaimed. "I uh...I don't have that information yet-" The Riddler cut him off with a curt wave of his hand.

"I'm not here on business tonight, Butch," he said. "The lady and I would like a drink." The man named Butch glanced at her and she saw the recognition flash across his coarse features, but he still stepped aside and motioned at the bar.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," he said. Then, to the bartender, "Everything's on the house." The place was otherwise empty, something that Salem was thankful for as they walked up to the bar. She slid onto a stool and set her shotgun on the worn bartop.

"What can I get ya' sweetheart?" the bartender asked, setting cocktail napkins in front of both her and her companion.

"Double of bourbon," she replied. "No ice." Beside her, the Riddler raised an eyebrow.

"That's quite a drink," he said. The bartender filled a glass for her and she snatched it up and drained half of it in one swallow. She winced as the familiar burn slid down her throat and settled with a pleasant warmth in her stomach. She set the drink down but didn't take her hand from it.

"And for you, Mr. Riddler sir?" He considered the question for a moment before replying,

"Gin martini. Dry, with extra olives." There was a mirror behind the bar, positioned so patrons could easily watch the door behind them without having to crane their necks. Salem stared into the reflection with a nervous intensity. The Riddler rolled his eyes.

"You can calm down now," he remarked as the bartender noisily shook liquor and ice together. "Actually, you could've relaxed twenty minutes ago." Salem shot him a glare and knocked back the rest of her bourbon.

"He held a gun to my head," she said.

"How utterly unremarkable," the Riddler retorted, picking up the martini that the bartender set in front of him. He gave it a swirl before taking a sip. "What _is_ remarkable is that the circus monkey didn't fire it once during the whole ordeal. It must've been an off day."

"I don't like being threatened," she said, nodding as the bartender picked up the bottle of bourbon and looked at her expectantly. He refilled her glass.

"Threatened?" the Riddler scoffed. "Please. The Joker doesn't threaten, he kills and then cackles about it for the next two hours. Threatening someone is an art form that's completely lost on him." Salem sipped at her drink and ran her finger around the rim of the glass; she couldn't take her eyes off of the door. The Riddler sighed.

"Riddle me this," he said. "The rich want it, the poor have it, and if you eat it you'll die. What am I?" Salem's brain was still jumbled and she hardly had the patience for riddles at this moment. She shrugged.

"The answer is nothing," the Riddler said. "Which is exactly what you have to be afraid of now."

"Who says I'm frightened?"

"You were terrified from the moment you walked into that warehouse," he replied. "Oh, don't look so indignant. I'm very good at reading body language, you know." Salem wondered if the others noticed as well. The thought gave her a sinking feeling that was only amplified by the liquor.

"I'm not afraid," she grumbled into her drink, though he was right and there was little reason to lie about it now. The Riddler picked a toothpick laden with green olives out of his martini and gingerly plucked one off with his teeth.

"You know, I have to admit that I was a little impressed with you back at Arkham," he said, changing the subject. "Most people would have resorted to bribery, threats of violence, or even trying to seduce me to solicit my help in breaking out of the asylum. But you chose to appeal to my intellect. And to think I believed everyone from the country to be coarse and naive."

"You knew?" Salem asked, a little taken aback.

"Of course I did," the Riddler replied. "I was on to your little game almost as quickly as it was started. Luckily for you, you turned out to be quite interesting." For some reason, that revelation only served to deflate her more.

"And here I thought I was being terribly clever," she said, finishing off her drink. She slammed it down on the bar and fished out her cigarettes and her lighter. The bartender pushed a glass ashtray over to her and refilled her glass.

"You _were_ clever," he said. "The only thing is I'm far more clever than you." Salem put an unlit cigarette in her lips but pulled it out again.

"I considered the other options, you know," she remarked. Only after the words tumbled out of her mouth did she realize what she'd said. She cleared her throat and turned her face away from him so he wouldn't see her blush.

"They might have worked. If you played your cards right," he said. He suddenly looked very embarrassed and gulped down the rest of his martini. An awkward silence descended between them, interrupted only by the music and the sound of the bartender making a second martini. Salem wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

Still, she took the lull in their conversation to study him out of the corner of her eye, realizing that she had never taken the time to actually look at him. She guessed that they were of a similar age. He was slightly taller than her, slender but not scrawny, with dark hair and blue eyes. He had a strong jawline and high cheekbones, and she wondered if his glasses were real or just for show. While most people found his brand of overwrought confidence to be exhausting, she found it oddly charming. She caught herself wondering if he would find someone like her attractive.

"What will you do now?" the Riddler asked. "You know Batman is bound to come after you-" Salem silenced him by placing a finger against his lips. She half expected him to bat her hand away, but he didn't.

"I have only one rule," Salem said. She could feel the bourbon floating up to her head. Her fear was gone, replaced with the only sort of confidence granted to those on the cusp of drunkeness. "Don't mix your business with your pleasure. So I don't talk about my professional life when I'm having fun." He raised an eyebrow.

"Are you having fun?" he asked as she pulled her finger away. She shrugged in a way that she thought was coy as she sipped at her drink.

"Are you?" she returned.

"I find you to be rather interesting and not a complete bore to talk to," he replied. "So, yes, I suppose I am." He paused before adding, "It's hard to find interesting people, you know. Men, women, it doesn't really matter. Each is as boring as the last. But you are most unusual."

"Unusual?" Salem said. "Mr. Nigma, where I come from unusual is just a synonym for weird." The Riddler scoffed at that.

"Like many words in English, the definition of unusual is dependent upon its context. It can certainly mean weird or odd, but in this particular context, I would take it to mean fascinating," he said. "And please, call me Edward." She finally lit her forgotten cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"I'm interesting, huh?" Salem asked, clutching her cigarette between two slender fingers. "You sure know how to compliment a girl." He looked a little indignant.

"It is a compliment," he said. "I find complimenting a person based on their physical appearance to be platitudinous. _Anyone_ could tell you that you have arresting eyes or beautiful red hair. By calling you interesting I'm merely implying that I'm intrigued by more than just your body." Salem raised an eyebrow and felt something flutter from her stomach to her chest. She glanced over at the bartender, wondering if he'd ever seen something like this before: two mildly intoxicated convicts caught somewhere between feigning indifference and flirting. How embarrassing.

"I need some air," she said, draining the last little bit of her bourbon and grinding out her cigarette in the ashtray. "Are you coming?" She stood up and fished around in her pockets, pulling out a crumpled $10 bill that she tried to smooth out before pushing it towards the bartender. He nodded to her as she picked up her shotgun and looked at the Riddler expectantly. He cleared his throat and snatched up his cane, following her out into the damp darkness of Gotham. What time was it now? 1 AM? 2? Thankfully the sun wasn't starting to peek between the gaps of the skyscrapers as they walked towards the car. They were the only ones out on the sidewalk in this part of town; even the cats and rats seemed to have crawled off to bed. As she was fumbling for her keys, Edward reached out and grabbed her other, scarred hand. His grip was strong but gentle, the feeling of his fingers on her scars sending a jolt through her. She looked up at him, wondering if he found the feeling of them as horrible as she did.

"I wasn't being facetious," he said. "I actually think your eyes are arresting and that you have pretty hair." He lifted her hand and lightly kissed her knuckles. Salem smiled and her cheeks flushed, probably turning as red as her hair.

"Sweet talker," she muttered, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. She was a little startled when he then leaned in and kissed her.

It was a gentle, probing sort of kiss, full of uncertainty. She could taste the gin on his lips, and its pine tree smell mingled with whatever expensive aftershave he wore, temporarily blocking out the miasma of vehicle exhaust and salty air that perpetually hung over Gotham City. They pulled away from each other to catch their breath, then kissed again, this one deeper than the first. Salem leaned back against the car, her arms snaking around his neck and pulling him closer to her. When he pulled away this time, he kissed the soft skin where her jaw met her neck and she giggled.

"My apartment isn't far from here," she whispered, pulling her keys out of her pocket. Edward adjusted his hat and gave her a peck on the lips.

"Lead the way," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I have no idea how to write romance. I'm woefully unromantic myself; when my fiancee asked me to marry him I immediately responded with "You son of a bitch" followed closely by "Yes" and 30 minutes of happy crying. It's a wonder I'm engaged.  
> Also, hello to the people who have brought this story up to 200 views! You guys rule.


	11. "There's Been an Incident"

Salem flicked on the lights inside her apartment, revealing a small yet cozy space. Edward wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting, but he was somewhat surprised to find a tidy space, furnished and decorated in that sort of thrift store chic that was popular nowadays. He was reminded of the image of Salem hurling an Arkham guard across the room with nothing but her mind; it was hard to imagine that that same person lived here in such a clean and orderly place. He noticed that there wasn't a TV, just a large stereo with a CD player and a bookshelf in one corner that was packed to bursting. A healthy-looking fern and a potted palm sat in one windowsill and a spiderplant stretched out from its hanging planter above them. Her inner sactum was more like that of a Coventry hipster than a wanted criminal. It was at once both charming and utterly bemusing.

"Do you want some tea?" she asked, shrugging off her trench coat and hanging it in a tiny closet. She stashed her shotgun inside as well. "I have black, green, mint, and...I think I might have some ginger left."

"Mint would be lovely," he replied. She nodded and darted off into the kitchen. "But make sure it's heated to 208 degrees farenheit!" If she heard him she made no indication. Left to his own devices, he took the opportunity to drift over to the bookcase. A bookcase was such an innocuous thing found in almost every respectable domicile in Gotham, but one could tell a lot about a person by looking at it and what books it contained on its shelves. He immediately noticed that not a single one of the colorful spines were broken, even if a few of the paperbacks were well-worn from many re-reads. He also saw that they were arranged in the strict manner of a library, alphabetized by the author's surname. Unsurprisingly he saw many titles by Fredrich Nietzsche and Soren Kierkegaard, but he was taken aback by the sheer amount of poetry nestled between the volumes by gloomy philosophers and titles of classic literature. Byron, Shelley, Dickenson, Ginsberg, they were all there. He had a difficult time imagining someone as explosive as Salem Ellis enjoying the quietude of _Ode to a Grecian Urn_ , yet here was a collection of Keats's poetry right in front of him.

He looked up from the bookshelf and saw a framed photograph of a much younger Salem hanging on the wall. In it she sat on a park bench, leaves in the riotous colors of fall scattered at her feet. In her lap was the same battered copy of Homer's _Illiad_ that sat on her shelf, her index finger holding her place even as the book was closed. Her characteristic two-toned stare looked out from behind a pair of rounded glasses with thick black rims. She was dressed in a light brown pencil skirt with a black turtleneck and matching beret, looking like a member of the Parisian intelligensia. The sunlight caught her long red hair, highlighting it with strands of gold and copper. In the photographer's light a faint smattering of freckles appeared across the bridge of her nose, crinkled up by her smile. The dark circles beneath her eyes were there but much fainter, and her smile was broad and genuine, not the tight-lipped smirk she flashed nowadays. Even then, young and bright as she was, he could see a haunted look in her stare, a melancholy that one day would turn into the rage of the present day.

"Elise took that in my first semester of college," Salem remarked, appearing at his shoulder with two steaming mugs of tea. She looked at the photo and smiled at it fondly. "I was reading in the park. She came right up to me and said 'Oh my god, you have the most beautiful eyes. Can I please take your picture?' No one had ever told me my eyes were beautiful." There was a sadness in her voice and in the way she looked at the picture.

"I was just admiring your bookcase," Edward said, taking one of the mugs from her and cradling it in his hands. Its warmth against his palms was welcome after the damp chill outside. "A fan of poetry are we?" Salem might have blushed but it was difficult to tell if the pinkness in her cheeks was from embarrassment or the cold.

"Don't laugh at me," she said, "but it's what I studied at school. British Literature with a focus in poetry." She side-eyed him, daring him to laugh.

" _You_ studied poetry?" he exclaimed. "You, Salem Ellis, scourge of every religious establishment in Gotham, derive pleasure from reading Chaucer and Byron?" Even as she glared at him the corner of her mouth upturned in a smirk. She said,

" _Wine comes in at the mouth_

_And love comes in at the eye;_

_That's all we shall know for truth_

_Before we grow old and die._

_I lift the glass to my mouth,_

_I_ _look at you and I sigh_."

"William Butler Yeats," Edward remarked.

"Very good," Salem said, kissing his cheek. She turned and drifted over to the couch, settling into one of its corners. He followed and sat beside her, setting his mug on the coffee table. She took a sip from hers and did the same. Salem nuzzled his neck then nipped at his earlobe, the sudden twinge of pain sending a jolt of pleasure through him. He kissed her and she brushed his hat off of his head so that she could wind her fingers through his hair. The feeling of her nails grazing his scalp sent shivers down his spine, prompting him to grab her waist and pull her closer to him. She smelled of cigarettes and the sweet burn of bourbon, and at that very moment it was the most intoxicating thing in the world. She was now fumbling with the buttons of his coat and his hands were up her shirt, his fingers brushing the soft flesh of her stomach, feeling the dimples on her back.

Their tea sat on the coffee table, completely forgotten.

*

When Salem awoke the next morning, she half expected him to be gone. Isn't that what the villainous types did? Leave in the middle of the night? Yet, as she drifted out of the depths of sleep, she felt him curled up at her back, one arm wrapped around her waist as his breaths brushed the back of her neck in steady bursts of warmth. She blinked at the clock on her bedside table and saw that it read 2 PM. She couldn't remember what time they'd gotten in or what time they'd actually gone to bed. Did it matter? The rogues of Gotham City were nocturnal after all.

_As if you're one of them_ , a voice said in her head. That voice was small but powerful, capable of casting her into a spiral of self-doubt. It was born of years of Midwestern upbringing, subtle encouragements that a girl was meant to be seen and not heard. Salem absent-mindedly stroked Edward's knuckles as she forcibly ejected that thought from her mind. Of course she was one of them. Didn't the Joker send his girlfriend to her door with a note? Not only had she stared him down, but she'd stared down the others too. They wouldn't have come if there wasn't good reason to. Either they were curious or perhaps some of them were even threatened. Good. Fear was a potent weapon to wield.

"That tickles," Edward muttered sleepily, his hand twitching under her touch. She stopped.

Salem was acutely aware that she'd crossed a threshold in the night. At some point she'd stopped being simply Salem Ellis the Church Bomber and ascended to something else. Did this transformation transpire when she killed Larry? When she met the Joker? Or was it before then, when she first heard Jack Ryder call her the Salem Witch over the airwaves? It was a stupid moniker, but a moniker all the same; such a name meant that she was something worth talking about in this town. With all of the threats she'd unleashed upon Gotham in one moment of chaos, _she_ was the one they talked about. Perhaps the time had come to embrace that name, and with it all its connotations and conjured images of fear and fire and blood.

Behind her Edward shifted and stretched and yawned.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Two in the afternoon," Salem replied. "Did you sleep well?" He yawned again.

"Well enough, considering you kept stealing the blankets." She considered telling him that he twitched and talked in his sleep, but she decided to keep it to herself. She tensed when she felt him running a finger along one of the jagged marks that lanced down her back. There were three of them, one almost perfectly vertical, the other two at sharp diagonals, cutting across her flesh like lightning bolts.

"Are these...lash marks?" he asked. Salem rolled over and faced him, hiding those damnable scars from his sight.

"My mother did that to me," she replied. "She tied me to a chair and beat me with a horse whip." The image of that day flashed across her mind like a scene from a film, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to make it go away. Edward pulled her closer and stroked her hair.

"You'll come to find that all of us have scars," he said. "Some of ours are just more visible than others." She wondered what he meant by that. She had little time to ponder it, because she was suddenly reminded that today was Tuesday. Bishop Francis was scheduled to arrive on Saturday to deliver a sermon and comfort the citizens of Gotham in the wake of her destruction. She was quickly running out of time.

"I have a favor to ask," Salem said, pushing herself away so she could look him in the eye. He raised a brow.

"Ah, now the _real_ reason for bringing me home comes out," he remarked dryly. She only rolled her eyes.

"Not how I operate," she said. "You're better connected in this city than me. I need to meet with Jonathan Crane." His trademark smugness quickly dissolved into hesitant confusion.

"What in the world do you want with Jonathan?" he asked.

"His chemical expertise would be most helpful in what I'm planning," Salem replied.

"While his chemical knowledge is useful, I've found that the pitfalls of allying yourself with the good doctor often far outweigh the benefits," he said. "He is arrogant, erratic, and gifted with the sort of obstinance that is found only in mules and people born in the American south."

"You sound like you speak from experience." Edward suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

"We're...ex-lovers of sorts," he said sheepishly. "Needless to say it didn't end well."

"Just tell me where to find him and I'll talk to him myself then, if you're not comfortable," she said. Edward scowled.

"Who said I'm uncomfortable?" he asked. "Nothing makes me uncomfortable. I'll see what I can do, though I make no guarantees; Jonathan's probably elbow-deep in whatever research he's conducting and unlikely to come up for air any time soon." He paused. "The only question now is what's in it for me?"

"Name your price," Salem said, trailing a fingertip up his stomach.

"Talking to my ex-boyfriend is at least worth dinner," Edward said. "My place, tomorrow night? 8 o'clock?"

"You're going to cook for me?" she asked.

"I happen to be a most excellent chef," he sniffed. "You don't have any food allergies do you? No? Good. Trust me, my dear, you will not be disappointed in my culinary expertise."

*

It was quiet in the church, that time of night when only the lost and the downtrodden wandered into the religious sanctum seeking shelter or perhaps seeking solace. Father Baden was surprised as he rounded the corner and saw a single candle burning at the foot of the cross up on to dias and a tall, slender woman seated in the second pew, staring off into space. Was she praying, perhaps? A curtain of her red hair hid her face from view, making it impossible to tell. He cleared his throat.

"Is there something I can help you with, my dear?" he called. "Or have you come seeking the solace of God?" At first the woman didn't move or respond, but he saw her place her gloved hands on the pew in front of her and push herself to her feet. She wore a long trench coat and a curious pair of sunglasses despite the fact that it was very nearly ten o'clock at night. There was something familiar about her face, but he couldn't place where he'd seen her before.

The massive doors that led into the church suddenly slammed shut behind him with a resounding _boom_. Father Baden whirled around, confused; how did that happen? It was a quiet, windless night.

"Actually, there is something you can help me with, Father," the woman called, walking towards him. "I have a confession." He turned back to face her, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something wasn't right.

"A-A confession, you say?" he asked. "Of course, my child. What is it?" She paused a few feet from him.

"I'm going to kill a man tonight," she replied.

"W-What?"

"And he's right in front of me." Father Baden felt as if he were struck by a battering ram that sent him flying back against the doors of the church. Stars exploded in his vision and when they cleared he saw the woman walking towards him, her right hand held out. Only then did he realize where he'd seen this woman before. Her picture was on TV.

The Salem Witch.

"Help!" he cried. "Someone please help me!" She jerked her hand and he suddenly fell forward, his nose and surely a rib breaking as he hit the wooden floor face-first. Then he was jerked again, skidding across the floor until his head striking a pew stopped him. He was too dazed to move, and he could only groan as he felt her slender fingers grab a fistful of his shirt and haul him into a sitting position. Her lips were pulled back in a smirk fit for the Devil himself as she pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead to reveal those horrible eyes of hers.

"Shhhhhh," she said, pulling a knife from the pocket of her coat. "You're going to help me welcome the Bishop to town, Father." She tapped the tip of the knife against his cheek. "Now tell me...How did the Romans martyr Saint Peter?"

*

There was a police cruiser parked out front of the church with two officers seated in it. They were young, inexperienced, and woefully unobservant; Salem had walked into the Church of the Holy Trinity without them even glancing at her. It was why she'd picked this place originally and she was glad that she did. Even now, as she walked out of the door, the two of them sat chatting amicably and munching on dollar hotdogs purchased from a nearby 7-11. They were probably bored, wondering why the Commissioner had them staking out this church night after night.

She lit a cigarette and walked down the stairs, pulling a pistol from a holster at her side. She made sure to avoid the puddles of light created by the streetlamps, her dark clothes helping to shield her in the murky shadows. There were no other cars around this time of night. It was only when she was very nearly at the cruiser's side that the officer in the driver's seat looked up from his meal and his eyes widened in shock just before there was a burst of light from the muzzle of her gun and the window shattered into a million pieces. The driver's head knocked back and he slumped forward, his head hitting the horn. His partner, shocked and covered in the splattered contents of the dead man's brains, only had time to shout an unintelligible word before she put a bullet in his brain as well. Salem opened the door and pulled the driver out of the vehicle, cutting the horn off abruptly. Somewhere nearby a dog barked furiously. Inside the car, the voice of the dispatcher came over the radio in an endless drone. Salem picked up the receiver and pressed the button.

"Dispatch," she called. The dispatcher's voice cut off immediately.

"Who is this?" she snapped.

"Send officers to the Church of the Holy Trinity," Salem said. "60th and Allen Rd. There's been an _incident_." She dropped the radio and disappeared down a nearby alley as a chorus of sirens blared in the distance. The sound of it brought a smile to her face.

So it begins.


	12. The Doctor Will See You Now

_**Harvey Dent, also known as Two-Face was apprehended last night while trying to rob Gotham General Bank. He is the first of the Arkham escapees to be apprehended by the Batman, though Commissioner Gordon assures us that the GCPD is narrowing in on the others.** _

_**In other news, Father Baden, beloved priest of the Chruch of the Holy Trinity, became the Salem Witch's 36th victim last night. Following a disturbing call to the GCPD dispatcher, officers arrived to find two of their own shot dead and Father Baden, his throat cut, strung up upside down on a large wooden crucifix behind the church's pulpit. Citizens of Gotham are advised to-** _

Salem hit a button on the remote for her stereo, switching from the news to a CD. She sat perched on the edge of her bathroom sink dabbing concealer over a tiny blemish that had surreptitiously appeared sometime in the afternoon, her wet hair wrapped up in a towel. She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn makeup, and her fingers felt clumsy as they handled the various brushes and sponges and applicators. She had a face for makeup, or so one of her friends majoring in fashion once said; that same friend had encouraged Salem to audition for runway modeling due to her height and waifish build. But there were too many suspicious scars, things that Salem never could have explained away even if she'd tried.

She picked up her phone and flipped it open to check the time. 6:00 PM. Salem shut her phone and hummed along to the Dandy Warhols' song playing loudly from her living room as she swiped mascara along her pale eyelashes, leaving them black and defined in the wake of the wand. There came a steady _thump_ , _thump_ , _thump_ from the apartment below as old Mrs. Wilkens banged on her ceiling with a broom handle, her not quite-so passive aggressive way of telling Salem to keep it down. Salem merely glanced at the floor and turned the music up louder.

So Two-Face was the first to bite the dust. Was that because there was still some piece of Harvey Dent in there, the White Knight of Gotham who believed that all crimes should be punished, including his own? It was hard to say. Salem was glad that Dent was apprehended when he was; he kept Batman's attention away from her. If he hadn't been predisposed, she was certain that he would've been chasing her down, not just the GCPD. The time would come for her to finally meet the Bat face-to-face, but not yet. Her plan was in motion but not yet in full swing.

She hopped down off of the sink and went into her bedroom, unwrapping the towel from around her as she approached the clothing laid out on top of her bed. She shook out her damp hair with her fingers as she inspected the black dress, fishnet tights, and knee-high boots. It was a simple ensemble, but even a simple black dress afforded a certain level of sophistication. She just hoped that it didn't seem like she was trying too hard. Then again, Edward made an entire career out of trying too hard, so maybe her concerns were unfounded.

The Dandy Warhols' album finished up and her stereo automatically switched to the next disc in the queue, filling her apartment with the aggressive guitar riffs of the Pixies. Downstairs, Mrs. Wilkens banged more furiously on the ceiling with her broom.

*

It was crowded in uptown, the sidewalks full of the well-dressed wealthy on their way to dinner parties, expensive dates, maybe even the opera. Salem wouldn't be surprised if she saw Bruce Wayne exit a valet car and walk into the five star restaurant across the street. More than a few people cast her odd glances as she passed by them, no doubt wondering why a woman was wearing sunglasses at night. There were a few police cruisers stuck in traffic out on the street and she saw two officers standing on a nearby street corner. Salem shoved her hands in her coat pockets and kept her head down, hoping that she wouldn't catch their attention. Luckily they were too engrossed in their whispered conversation about the young socialite trying to get out of a car without flashing her panties to take much notice of her.

Salem was surprised when she arrived at Edward's address and was greeted by a well-dressed doorman who smiled and said "Good evening Miss" as he opened the large glass door. She stammered out a hello before darting into the brightly-lit lobby. A few people exited the elevator as Salem approached and she darted in and jammed the door close button before they could get a good look at her. She hit the button for the seventh floor and leaned back against the shiny, stainless steel wall as the elevator began the slow climb. She decided to take off her sunglasses and tuck them into her pocket, hoping that everyone who was leaving their apartments tonight were on their way down, not up.

She stepped out of the elevator and looked at the apartment numbers as she padded down the hall. She glanced at the piece of paper clutched in her hand, squinting as she tried to decipher Edward's scrawling script. Was that a 1 or a 7? She decided that it was a 7 and knocked on the front door for apartment number 772. She held her breath, preparing herself in case she was wrong. No telling how that exchange would go: _Yes, hello, I_ am _in fact the Salem Witch. Sorry, wrong apartment_.

She let out that breath when Edward opened the door and flashed that toothy grin of his. He wore a dark sweater vest over a white button down and a pair of khaki pants, making him look more like a guy from IT than a supervillain. She noticed the black apron he had tied around his waist and had to stop herself from asking if people actually wore those things.

"Good evening, Miss Ellis," he said, stepping aside and motioning for her to come in. He took her coat and stashed it in a closet near the door, but Salem was too busy looking around her with wide-eyed surprise to respond.

The apartment was open and airy, with brick walls and exposed ductwork along the ceiling. Everything was very modern and very chic, and she had a feeling that the sofa alone was worth one month's rent. The large windows overlooked downtown Gotham in all of its nighttime splendor, the skyscrapers rising tall and glittering above the blanket of smog and diesel fumes that cloaked the streets. A fire flickered merrily in a gas fireplace as a Puccini aria drifted softly from an unseen stereo. Nothing was out of place and she didn't see a single speck of dust anywhere. Edward drifted over to a bar cart and poured two glasses of dark red wine from a carafe.

"I don't think I've ever been in a place this nice," she remarked, accepting the glass he offered her She spun in tiny circles, too preoccupied with taking it all in that she didn't notice Edward's smug grin. She paused as her eyes came across a rather large canvas hanging in a recessed alcove across the room. She'd seen something like it in a museum once, large blocks of orange and purple hazily blended together on a brown background.

"That's...That's not _real_ , is it?" she asked, pointing at it.

"If by real you mean authenticated and original, then yes, it is," Edward replied. Salem's eyebrows flew up.

"You're telling me that you have a _real_ painting by Mark Rothko just hanging in your apartment?" she exclaimed. "Did you steal it?"

"Heavens no," he said. "I bought it at auction years ago. The only reason this apartment exists is because neither the police nor Batman can tie any of these purchases to money from my various heists over the years. Everything, including my rent, is paid for legally."

"And your neighbors are fine living next door to the Riddler?" she asked. He chuckled.

"Alberto Falcone lives three floors up," he replied. "Roman Sionis used to have a place here too. Pay your landlord enough money and they'll pretend like you don't exist."

"So all of this legal. That just makes you really rich?"

"In a manner of speaking," Edward said, sipping at his wine. "I made smart investments. And cyber security, even for the GCPD, was a very lucrative business to be in."

"No kidding," Salem said, still staring at the painting in disbelief. Then she registered what he said. "Wait. You worked for the GCPD?"

"I was their head of cyber security," he replied. "Then Batman got involved." He scowled into the red depths of his glass and shook his head as if to clear the unwelcome memories. He reached out and took her hand and led her into the kitchen. Like the rest of the apartment it was open, with stainless steel appliances and sleek cabinetry. He flicked a switch on the stove and a light came on in the oven. He opened it slightly to check on whatever was in there, and the delicious smell of roasting meat wafted up to her nostrils. Salem's stomach growled.

"I settled on lamb since you didn't have any preferences," he remarked, shutting the oven door. "It's one of my specialties."

"That smells delicious," she said, leaning against the island in the middle of the room. "I'm sure it will be lovely." He shut the oven and turned to her, swirling his wine before taking a sip.

"You flatter me, Miss Ellis," he returned, leaning forward to give her a kiss.

"I flatter only when appropriate," Salem said, pressing her lips to his.

A buzzing sound came from the nearby counter. Pulling away from her, Edward snatched up his phone and swiped a thumb across the screen.

"Imagine that," he remarked. "It looks like Jonathan did manage to surface from whatever dank basement he's currently hiding in. He agrees to meet with you. Tonight." Salem sipped her wine and scowled.

"Tonight?" she asked. "I'm not exactly dressed for a business meeting."

"This might be the only chance you'll get," Edward returned. The timer on the oven buzzed. "But first, we eat! I didn't spend all evening making this dinner for Jonathan to crash it." He pulled a rack of lamb out of the oven and set it on a trivet before scrutinizing the meat thermometer that was sticking out of it.

"Perfect," he said. He nodded at the wine. "This Bordeaux will pair perfectly with it. Do you mind pulling some plates down? They're in this cabinet just over here."

*

Salem banged her fist on the graffiti-covered door of an abandoned storefront, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. It was a drizzly night and she'd neglected to bring an umbrella. She glowered up at the night sky, cursing the heavens for what the moisture was going to do to her hair.

There was a click and the door swung open to reveal two rather large men wearing burlap masks reminiscent of the Scarecrow's and carrying shotguns. They looked her up and down, the guns' muzzles trained on her.

"You the Salem Witch?" one of them asked, his voice muffled by the fabric.

"No, I'm the fucking Queen of England," she snapped. "Of course I am. Are you going to let me in or what? I have an _appointment_." They stepped aside but kept the shotguns pointed at her. One of them patted her down, making sure that there were no weapons on her.

"This way," he said, leading her through the skeletal remains of what might have once been a drug store. The interior of the building smelled vaguely of mold, its walls covered with the clumsy graffiti of Gotham's degenerate teenagers. The floor was littered with empty malt liquor bottles, cigarette butts, and two ripped condom wrappers. She sneezed as dust tickled her nose, the sound disturbing a rat from its nest near the broken-down counter. The only lights seemed to come from outside, casting strange shadows on the walls. If there was anywhere in Gotham City she would have expected to find the Scarecrow, this certainly was it.

The thug opened a door at the back, revealing a dark, narrow staircase descending down into some sort of cellar. The strong odor of chemicals wafted up from the basement, and she could see a pale light from somewhere downstairs reflected on the walls. He nodded, indicating that she should go down. Grasping the railing with one hand and keeping the other on the cold concrete wall, Salem picked her way down, her heart quickening in her chest. What waited for her at the bottom of these stairs?

A laboratory, as it were. Salem paused towards the end of the stairs to peer into the forest of beakers and test tubes and bunsen burners, surprised that Crane could set up such an intricate lab in so little time. Liquids in every color of the rainbow simmered and smoked, no doubt components in the fear toxin that was the Scarecrow's primary weapon. The air down here was close and cloyed by the acrid smell of chemicals; how did anyone manage to breathe down here? The back wall was covered in notes and diagrams and chemical formulas, all hastily scribbled on pages torn from a legal pad. She was peering at those notes when Crane came into view, clearing his throat to get her attention.

Outside of his costume, Jonathan Crane cut a decidedly non-threatening figure. Tall and lanky, he had the appearance of a disheveled college professor with his messy reddish-brown hair and wire-rim glasses. He was older than her, with gray peppering his five o'clock shadow and the faint beginnings of wrinkles along his face and neck. Despite his slight build, his eyes, a color somewhere between blue and gray, were bright and sharp and burning with a predatory sort of intelligence that put Salem on edge. She noticed that he hunched his shoulders slightly, probably a holdover from his grade school days; other kids couldn't make fun of your height if you tried your best to hide it. It was a tactic Salem was more than familiar with.

"Don't touch anything," Crane growled before she could even put one foot on the floor. There was a certain cadence in his voice, a tendency to emphasize certain syllables and vowels. Though she was from Indiana, Melody wasn't far from the Kentucky border, and Salem knew a southerner trying to hide their drawl when she heard it. She put her hands in the air and made a show of carefully stepping down into his laboratory. He glared down his nose at her.

"I do hope you have a good reason for interrupting my research," he continued. He reached over and grabbed a nondescript ceramic mug and took a sip. Salem wondered if, in a sleep-deprived delirium, he'd ever accidentally added chemicals to his morning coffee instead of cream and sugar.

"I promise this won't take long," she said. "I merely have a proposition for you to consider. You and I are in a similar business."

"A similar business?" he scoffed. "I am conducting important research. You are militarizing some twisted form of nihilism. I see no similarities between us, Miss Ellis." Salem had a feeling he was going to say something like that.

"Fear is fear no matter if its cause is chemical or existential," she said. "Edward told me you're working on a new formula for your toxin. You'll need test subjects, won't you? Help me get what I want and I'll give you one hell of a trial run." That got his attention.

"Go on," he said.

"Bishop Francis is arriving on Saturday to help strengthen the resolve of Gotham's religious establishment," she said. "He's expected to draw quite a crowd at Divinity Church but there's bound to be tight security, likely more than my resources can deal with. If you assist me with crowd control, I can nab the bishop and give you an entire cathedral full of people under your toxin's effects. Rather tempting, don't you think?" Crane seemed to consider it for a moment. He pulled his glasses off his nose and rubbed at the lenses with the hem of his shirt. There was a hint of condescension in the way he did it, as if he were a professor contemplating a student's particularly stupid statement.

"Is that what my research is to you, Miss Ellis?" he asked, carefully perching his glasses on his nose again. "Crowd control?" Salem didn't like where this was going. "Do you know what my toxin does? It makes a man see his darkest fears. Take too much and you'll die of fright."

She was ready for him.

Crane's hand shot up, revealing some kind of dispersal apparatus strapped to his wrist. He tried to press the activation switch, but Salem's own hand shot out and her telekenetic force surged out of her. His hand snapped back, striking the wall behind him hard enough to send a numbing tremor up his arm. She expected nothing but vitriol from him, but Crane let loose a horrible cackle, the sound of his laughter sending a shiver down her spine. He didn't struggle, he just looked at Salem with those pale eyes of his, now feverish with a madness that wasn't there before.

"My, my," he said, his southern drawl becoming more pronounced. "What's the matter, Miss Ellis? Aren't you even the least bit curious of what you'll see?"

"I know what I'll see," Salem snarled, not sure if she was telling the truth or not. Did she know? "Are you crazy? You don't have your mask. Won't that stuff effect you too?"

"Who do you think is my primary test subject?" he replied. He nodded at the device on his wrist. "This is an old formula, one I'm doubtless immune to by now. But it's more than potent enough to induce hallucinations in you." What kind of man would purposefully douse himself in fear toxin, knowing exactly what it would do? She wondered what the infamous Doctor Crane saw in his nightmares. Salem considered knocking him out and making a hasty getaway, but something stopped her.

"I bet it's like most drugs," she said. "Everyone reacts a little differently to it, don't they? Think about my offer, Doctor. A few hundred test subjects all in an enclosed space. It makes it easy to observe."

"You think you have everything figured out, don't you?" Crane asked. "First you let everyone loose from Arkham to generate a distraction. Easy enough, and your work is already done; Joker, Two-Face, Penguin, even Poison Ivy...their base, chaotic natures will draw Batman out to finish the job. With the Batman distracted you can get all of your ducks in a row. Apparently even take time for a dinner date."

"Jealous, Doctor?" Salem asked. He laughed.

"Hardly," he said. "Once everything is ready you spring your trap. You take Bishop Francis and leave me to deal with Batman, perhaps to slow him down, giving you enough time to do your work, maybe even scribble out another pithy quote in the priest's blood. Then you can slip away until the next time. Is that it, Miss Ellis? Is that your grand scheme?

"Well, I call tell you that it won't work. Batman won't stay distracted forever. Eventually you'll become a big enough problem that he'll come after you before all the others. And when you have to face him, what will you do? Just what you're doing now? It might work...but Batman is often once bitten and twice shy. Is your message worth it?"

"The world needs to know what I know," Salem said. Crane only rolled his eyes.

"Ah, yes oh Enlightened One, tell us," he sneered. "Tell us what so many already understand: that God is a figment of our imaginations, created by the insecure to provide them some paltry comfort that there is indeed some form of life after death." She couldn't tell if he was mocking her. "Do you think that you are the only one who has felt the cruel hand of religion? You certainly aren't the first, nor will you be the last."

"Will you help me or not?" Salem demanded, her patience wearing thin.

"Luckily for you, I relish any opportunity to meet the Batman," Crane replied. His accent had once again slipped away. "Though I'm certainly not participating out of any interest in what you have to do." Salem released him from her invisible hold, and he rubbed at the back of his hand. She still didn't like the way he looked at her, but there was hardly a chance to turn back now. She strode across the room and thrust out a hand towards him; she couldn't help but notice just how cold his palms were as they shook hands to seal the deal.


	13. Night Terror

_"And may the power of God smite this abomination from my daughter's flesh, so that she may be whole and pure once again!" Salem screamed as the horse whip lashed across her back, leaving stinging agony in its wake. She worried her hands against the ropes binding her to the chair, but it was too thick and tied too tightly; the coarse fibers scraped against the soft flesh of her wrists, rubbing them raw._

_"By the suffering of Christ she will be cleansed!" Another lash, this one harder than the one before it. She could feel her skin split open and the thick blood stream down her back like warm honey. She sobbed and begged and screamed for help and tried to escape, but only the crows in the field could hear her cries._

_Suddenly the scene was plunged into blackness and she felt cold, sharp needles press against her cheek as Jonathan Crane's cackle filled her ears._

_"Tell me what you see," he hissed in her ear._

The scream that tore out of Salem's mouth was primal as it echoed off the high ceilings of Edward's apartment. At first she had no idea where she was, the details of the room indiscernible in the darkness as she flailed about in an attempt to fling the sheets off of her. Her back burned and her mother's voice still lingered in her ears as a completely disoriented Edward reached out and grabbed her wrist.

A scene flashed before her eyes of a young boy cowering in a corner, blood streaming from his nostrils. A man stood over him, bleary-eyed and enraged, his knuckles bloody. The smell of cheap whiskey was overpowering. Somewhere in the background a TV chattered, its volume turned up way too loud.

The world abruptly fell out from beneath her and Salem hit the floor so hard it nearly knocked the breath from her. The sudden jolt brought her back to reality and she remembered where she was. She sat up in a tangle of bedsheets sweaty and heaving shuddering breaths. The cool, early morning air prickled her naked skin, bringing with it the refreshing reminder of the real world. Edward was looking down at her from the bed, wide-eyed and utterly confused. Her sudden outburst no doubt startled him as much as it did her, but she couldn't offer any sort of explanation. Her night terrors had always been fierce, but this...this was something new.

"What in the devil has gotten into you?" he asked, recovering at least some of his composure. "Did Jonathan spray you with toxin and you didn't tell me about it?" Salem only buried her face in her hands and tried to slow her heart rate.

"No, no," she muttered when she felt like she could speak. "I...I just had a nightmare." Edward scoffed at her.

"That was  _just_ _a_ _nightmare_?" he exclaimed. "You might want to submit yourself to observation by Dr. Crane if that's what your nightmares are like." He massaged his jaw. "You hit me." Only then was she aware that her knuckles stung.

"I...I'm sorry," she said. Her voice sounded vague and far away to her ears. She scrambled to her feet and snatched up her pack of cigarettes, noticing with a sinking feeling that she only had one left. She jammed it between her lips as she flung back the curtains and cranked open one of the windows. The sudden blast of chilly air made her shiver. She struggled to strike her lighter, but it finally caught on the fourth try. The first inhale of smoke did little to quell the uneasiness in her stomach, but it certainly helped ease her nausea.

That first memory was her own. She remembered it in vivid clarity, usually whenever she wasn't in the mood to be reminded what racehorses felt like as they thundered down the track. But that second one...She glanced over at Edward, who was yanking on a pair of flannel pajama pants. Was that memory _his_?

He rifled around in his bedside drawer for a moment before approaching her. She watched with mild surprise as he put a cigarette in his own mouth then held out his hand for her lighter. Leaning against the opposite side of the window, he took a long drag before blowing the smoke out into the cold dawn air. Already the sounds of commuter traffic were drifting up from the street below as the horizon glowed with the riotous pinks and oranges of sunrise. He rolled his eyes when he saw her staring at him.

"As if you're the only one who smokes," he said. "Unlike you, I'm not woefully addicted to them. Nicotine is helpful in keeping one awake without the jitters that caffeine induces." It was strange, seeing him disheveled and groggy and with a smoldering cigarette between his lips. As the Riddler he was always so posh and put together with his three-piece suits and derby hats. But here his hair was messy and he had the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow along his jaw, which Salem now saw was red where she'd clobbered him. She reached out to touch him, but he glowered and waved her hand away.

"I doubt it'll leave a bruise. You don't hit as hard as Batman," he remarked, running a hand along his chin.

 _Or your father_ , she thought. The suddenness of the thought's appearance and its intrusive nature startled her and caused her to choke on the lungful of smoke she had in her mouth. She coughed, expelling smoke like a dragon. Scowling, she flicked her cigarette out the window and leaned over to kiss his injury.

"I'll have to work on my right hook then," she remarked. She turned and padded back to the bed and bent down to pick up the heap of bedsheets from the floor. An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of her stomach as she began untangling the sheets from one another. Was this just an isolated incident? A freak accident, maybe? Or was this only the beginning of something new?

*

Nighttime in Gotham. James much preferred this sinkhole of a city at night, when the shadows hid the graffiti-covered infrastructure and gutter trash from sight. True, the rats and roaches and freaks all came out in droves after dark, but at least the general urban clamor died down. It was the only time he could go out for a walk and clear his head and not be jostled by a hundred people on the streets.

He stepped out of the corner store and twisted the top off the 40 oz. of malt liquor he'd bought, making sure to keep the brown paper bag wrapped around its telltale label as he went down the street. Out of habit he fished his phone out of his pocket and checked it for missed messages, but his inbox remained empty. He hadn't heard from Salem in the three days following her meeting with the Joker. He knew she was alive. How couldn't he? He'd seen the reports about that priest, the one she'd murdered and strung up on a cross. He was in a bar when the story broke, and his beer fell from numb fingers when he heard the recording of her voice:

 _There's been an incident_.

James knew that Salem was angry. He was probably the only person in Gotham who knew her story from start to finish, about the endless torture and her mom's death. After Elise committed suicide, he even understood it, that unbridled rage against the church and God and the desire for revenge. That's why he'd helped her with the bombs. Sure people died, but James wasn't a stranger to taking a life, and Salem's inflamed rhetoric had only fanned the flames of his anger. He didn't even bat an eye when the news reported on what she did to Larry; the bastard tried to rape her, he deserved it, didn't he?

But this? Killing a priest and two cops? James had always had a feeling that Salem would eventually end up in the freakish end of the Gotham underground, but he had been so sure that she would ease herself in. Instead, she'd swan-dived into the deep end and it frightened him. What happened to that quiet redhead who wore a beret and read romantic poetry to his kid sister?

James and Elise were the first two people she'd ever shown her powers to. It happened one night when the two girls were visiting from college and he'd gotten them a box of wine. Like always, Salem drank too much and asked them with slurred words if they wanted to see a magic trick. She'd sent a chair sliding across the room. They all laughed. Moments later she broke down crying and told them that she was an abomination.

He took another swig and turned down an alley. Like her, James came from a strict religious household. That's why his parents sent Elise to that awful place to be "reformed" of her homosexuality. He knew that place did awful things to her, because when Elise came back, she wasn't herself. It was almost like they'd taken her brain out of her skull, leaving an empty husk behind. He almost wasn't surprised when his mother called two weeks later and said Elise was gone. She'd swallowed a bottle of aspirin and downed a bottle of their father's best whiskey sometime in the night. What had his mother said? _She's with God now_.

Salem disappeared after that, and he didn't see her again until she called him out of the blue and told him that she was moving to Gotham. When he met her at the train station, she was different. She didn't smile any more. All she had with her was a dufflebag of clothes, a carton of cigarettes, and a half-empty handle of bourbon. He didn't ask where she'd been or what she'd been doing, he just took her in. It didn't take long to see that her sadness had melted into anger. And now that anger was taking her places even James wasn't sure he wanted to go.

The only warning he had was a whoosh of air, a shadow passing overhead, before he felt an impossibly strong hand grab the back of his coat and haul him up. The world went topsy-turvy as he flew up, the air whistling in his ears. He jerked to a halt and suddenly saw stars as a fist slammed into his head, laying him out flat. When the stars cleared from his vision, James looked up and saw a huge, black-cowled shape. He tried to scream, but Batman stomped a foot down on his face, grinding the tread of his boot into James's skin.

"Where's the Salem Witch?" he roared in a gravelly voice.

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" James shrieked as he tried to pry Batman's boot off of him. "I don't know that crazy bitch!"

"I know you helped her plant those bombs in the churches. You came to get her and the Riddler after she broke out of Arkham. You're an accessory to murder. Now don't make me ask you again. Where is she?" James thought he could hear his jawbone creaking under the pressure.

"I don't know!" he cried. "Seriously! I haven't seen her in three days, man! She had some meeting with the Joker and then after that she just disappeared!"

"What did Joker want with her?" Batman demanded.

"Hell if I know!" James replied. "She went by herself. My guess is Joker just wanted to shake her up, let her know who's boss! Ow, come on man, you're breaking my jaw!" Batman didn't let up.

"She has to be planning something," he growled. "What is it?" James continued to struggle, but he couldn't escape.

"She's been trying to lure the bishop to Gotham for months now," he said. "My guess is that she wants to kill him. I don't know how she plans to do it. Please, I've told you all I know, just let me go!" There was a pause, and Batman lifted his foot from James's head. He tried to sit up, but moments later that same boot struck him hard in the side of the head. Stars burst in his field of vision, then he was plunged into darkness.


	14. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat"

Nearly four-hundred people turned out for Bishop Francis's sermon, undeterred by the media's warnings to stay home or the haunting specter of the Salem Witch lurking somewhere in the shadows. They piled into Divinity Church until the police officers told them that no more could fit, and those that were left stood outside beneath umbrellas as a cold rain drizzled down on top of them. They came carrying rosaries and Bibles and whispering prayers to God to shield them from the Salem Witch's wrath.

Bishop Francis was uttering his own prayers as he prepared himself for his sermon. He was an aging man, his hair long since turned gray. He'd been a man of the cloth for quite some time now and seen all manner of atrocities, but never something quite like what was happening in Gotham now. This city seemed to be a magnet of iniquity, far more so than anywhere else the bishop had ever been. It was as if the Devil himself had cast a shadow over it, making it a breeding ground for violence and sin. It lifted his spirits to see so many people here today, and he prayed that God would place his protection on them.

A hush fell over the crowd as Bishop Francis stepped out to the pulpit. News cameras crowded at the back of the cathedral, jockeying for the best view as the bishop began to speak.

  
*

  
"Alpha Unit what is your position?" Commissioner Gordon asked into a walkie talkie. He glanced up at the roof of a nearby apartment building, where a sniper crouched with his sights swiveling about the crowd below. He could hear faint organ music coming from inside Divinity Church.

"Everything a-okay from here," the sniper replied. "No sign of any suspicious activity."

"Well, keep your eyes peeled," Gordon growled. "I don't think she's going to sit this one out." He grumbled something about "stubborn old men" as he lit a cigarette and surveyed the crowd in front of him, damp and shivering as they huddled beneath glistening umbrellas. Gordon pulled up the collar of his coat and hunched his shoulders against the cold, hoping that the rain wouldn't suddenly decide to pick up into a downpour. Just when he thought this city had reached its critical mass of loonies and freaks, another one shows up. Gordon remembered the night they caught her, how she'd stood in front of that (thankfully empty) blazing church, a cigarette hanging from her lips. She'd placed her hands on her head and turned to face them, and the smirk on her face was enough to make his stomach turn. He was the one who interrogated her; he could see plainly that there was no remorse for what she'd done. When asked why she blew up Divinity Church, she told him,

_Sometimes, to wake them up, the people need a really big boom._

To make matters worse, it appeared she was one of the freaks too. What did she do? Fall in a vat of chemicals? Was she exposed to some kind of fallout from the particle accelerator explosion in Central City? Could that sort of thing extend all the way into Indiana? They weren't sure what the Salem Witch could even do. Some claimed that she could hurl a man backwards without touching him. Others speculated super strength. Gordon hoped it wasn't super strength; Bane and Croc were bad enough. His bleak thoughts grew bleaker as the rain began to patter harder on the police cruisers. He was about to seek refuge in his car's interior when, above the sound of the rain and the traffic, he heard terrified screaming.

  
*

  
The people were so transfixed by Bishop Francis's sermon that they barely noticed the gas as it began to pour into the cathedral through the ventilation system. It was odorless, tasteless, and only when it filled the room did it cast a greenish tint on everything. It tickled the noses of the people, made a few of them sneeze. The people closest to the vents were affected first. One man jumped up and frantically slapped at his pants, shouting to get the spiders off of him. Across the room, a woman screamed and clawed her way over the people next to her in an attempt to get away from an invisible clown. By the time the others registered what was going on, they too were in the grasp of Scarecrow's toxin, and all of their fears suddenly became frighteningly real.

The bishop coughed and tried to cover his nose and mouth with his hand, but he'd already inhaled the gas. His heart rate increased and he broke out in a cold sweat as an overwhelming sense of dread washed over him. Whimpering, he sank down behind the pulpit, his knees drawn up to his chest. Behind him, the screams of the crowd became a symphony of hell and flames sprang up around him as a voice read off his list of sins in a terrible monotone. A shadow fell over him, causing him to start, and he watched as she seemed to materialize out of the greenish smoke, a waifish demon in the flesh. In the bishop's fevered eyes the gas mask she wore became her face, bulbous eyes burning with the fires of hell. Behind her other devils writhed and cackled, ready to tear him to pieces. Bishop Francis screamed.

Salem laughed. It was something she rarely did, and garbled through the gas mask it sounded like some awful cackle. Still, the sight of this old man cowering before her like a frightened child brought her a great sense of satisfaction. She could see now why Crane enjoyed playing with his toxin so much. Fear made people powerless and gave the fearless all of the power. The feeling was intoxicating.

Crane's cackle echoed her own as he stood behind her, surveying the chaos through the glowing eyes of his mask. The crowd, packed in as they were, were tearing at each other in an attempt to escape their hallucinations. More than a few people were trampled in the fray. Others used whatever they could get their hands on as makeshift cudgels to assist in beating their way out. One man threw himself against one of the stained glass windows, shattering it into a million pieces. The shards of glass cut his arms and face to ribbons, but his fear was so overpowering he still climbed out into the street, where the sound of Commissioner Gordon yelling into a bullhorn could now be heard.

Grabbing the bishop by the collar, Salem hauled him to his feet and pointed her shotgun at his face.

"Move, old man!" she snarled. He shrieked and tried to run, but Salem kicked the backs of his knees and sent him sprawling.

"Butch!" she called. A rather large man in a gas mask lumbered over to her. "Drag this idiot upstairs." He grunted and grabbed the bishop by the back of his collar and quite literally began dragging him towards a stairwell that led up to what Salem assumed was the belfry.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat," Crane exclaimed in a disconcerting singsong voice, "how I wonder where you're at!" She was the first up the stairs, and as she rounded the first turn in their winding way up, she came to an abrupt halt when she encountered the most terrifying thing she'd seen all day.

Batman was an imposing sight in the flesh. He was huge and hulking, especially in the narrow stairwell, and the sight of him caught Salem off-guard. She'd told herself that she wasn't afraid to face him, but now that he was in front of her she was beginning to have second thoughts. His muscles strained the fabric of his suit, and she was fairly certain that one hit from him would shatter every bone in her body. How did men like Edward Nigma and Jonathan Crane stand up to such a beast and live?

"Let him go, Salem," Batman barked, his voice seemingly loud enough to splinter the wood around him. Salem grit her teeth and forced her nerves out of her mind as she rapidly looked for a way out. Running back into the cathedral wasn't an option. Then her eye caught the broken window behind Batman that he had no doubt come in through.

"I wonder," she said. "Can this bat fly?" Her hand shot out towards Batman and her powers surged out of her, barreling into him like an invisible bull. It struck him with enough force to throw him out of the window, and he seemed to hang in the air for a moment before plummeting down out of sight. Salem didn't take the time to see if he was splattered across the pavement below as she darted up the stairs.

  
*

  
Batman groaned as he came to. Though every inch of his body screamed in pain, the armor plating of his suit thankfully spared him any major broken bones. He was vaguely aware of a voice trying to cut through the static and the ringing in his ears. His head swam and his vision blurred as he tried to sit up. What happened? One moment he was standing in the stairwell, the next he felt as if he'd been punched by Bane, and then he was falling. In that one moment, every electrical element in his suit had gone haywire; the detective vision in his cowl malfunctioned, the comm link shrieked with feedback. Out of the jumbled mess of his mind an anecdote surfaced: Aaron Cash said that the camera outside of the Salem Witch's cell had malfunctioned prior to Larry Berkowitz's mysterious injury.

Suddenly things began to make sense. Larry's concussion, the broken necks of the dead Arkham guards, how slender Salem Ellis was able to overpower men twice her size. He remembered seeing her brow furrow just before he flew backwards, almost as if she was concentrating. It wasn't super strength it had to be-

"Sir, it appears you were hit with a rather alarming amount of electromagnetic energy. Are you all right?" Alfred's voice cut through the ringing in Batman's ears.

"I'm fine," he grunted into his comm link. "I just met the Salem Witch. Alfred, she's some kind of psychic. Her powers disrupted the electronics in my suit."

"And here I thought you were picking a fight with a tank," the butler quipped. "Shall I send over the Disruptor, sir? It seems like it might be useful, given the nature of her abilities."

"Yes," Batman replied. "And make it quick. She has Bishop Francis."

"Oh dear. The Batwing is en route. I'm sending you the coordinates of the drop point now."

  
*

The bells of Divinity Church hung above them like colossal bronze stalactites, the weight of them an oppressive force pressing down on them. The air was close and the lighting dim, and Salem heard a helicopter whir by over the sound of the rain pattering against the roof. Butch dumped Bishop Francis on the floor and went to guard the door. Salem ripped off her gas mask and tossed it off to the side, then dealt Francis a swift kick in the gut that sent him sprawling.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he wailed. He tried to crawl away, but Salem slammed a foot onto his ankle and pressed down as hard as she could. The old man cried out in pain. She cocked her shotgun and aimed it at his head.

"Retribution," she snarled.

"I've done nothing to you!" Francis shrieked. He sobbed. "Please, just let me go." Salem's finger tightened on the trigger. A memory of her begging her mother to let her go echoed in the back of her mind. She swung the muzzle of the gun away from the bishop and fired, the shell obliterating a section of the wooden floor close to the old man's head. He screamed, both in fear and in pain as slivers of wood embedded themselves in his face. She cocked the gun again and placed its warm muzzle against the side of his head.

"Tell me, Bishop," she sneered, "where is your God now?"

Something zipped past Salem and struck Butch in the back of the head. He went down with a yelp, out cold. Salem whirled on her heel and held up a hand as another Batarang came whirring towards her. For a brief moment, everything seemed to slow down and the bat-shaped boomerang came into sharp focus. It suddenly halted and hung in the air. She saw movement in the shadows across the room and sent the Batarang flying back from where it came, but Batman was too quick. He ducked out of the way and pulled a gun-like gadget from his belt as he rolled into a crouch. Salem wasn't about to give him the opportunity to fire; she swiped her hand to the right, sending Batman flying into the wall with as much force as she could muster. For a brief moment she thought she'd killed him, but then he groaned and staggered to his feet. She snarled and angrily threw her shotgun off to the side. She looked up at the bells hanging above them and focused on a smaller one directly above Batman. Raising both of her hands up she concentrated as hard as she dared. The air filled with a baritone hum as the surrounding bells began to vibrate. Salem's hands began to shake as she felt the tremendous weight of solid bronze strain against her.

Suddenly, her head was filled with a terrible keening. She screamed and dropped to her knees, slamming her hands over her ears in an effort to block the sound out, but it was no use. Her temples pounded with the noise and it felt as if her eardrums would explode. Across the room, Batman lowered the Disruptor, breathing a sigh of relief that it was enough to incapacitate the Salem Witch's powers. After a few moments of her screaming and writhing on the floor, he pressed a button on his wrist console, cutting the transmission of the frequency. Salem's agonized cries faded to disoriented groans. Batman made a mental note to inform Arkham of the exact frequency so they could control her once she was back in the asylum.

"You son of a bitch," Salem growled as she propped herself up on one elbow, a thin stream of blood running from her nose.

"It's over, Salem," Batman said as he started to stride towards her. Salem chuckled as she looked at the Batarangs neatly arranged on his utility belt. Though the Disruptor's interference made her woozy, she still had one last trick up her sleeve.

"Is it?" she asked as the Batarang tore free of Batman's belt and zoomed up into the forest of bells, slicing through the rope of one swinging over his head. Batman looked up and flung himself out of the bell's path as it plummeted downward and punched a hole through the floor. It fell into the pews below with a resounding bong. Salem staggered to her feet, her mind swimming. How much more of this could she take?

A thin arm wrapped around her waist and the smell of straw and chemicals enveloped her as Crane pulled her against him. She tried to struggle, but she was too weak; when she felt the sharp tips of hypodermic needles press against her cheek, her blood ran cold.

"Let her go, Crane!" Batman snapped. He came as close as he dared, no doubt trying to stay out of the Scarecrow's range.

"What did I tell you?" Crane's breath was hot against her ear. He ran one needle along the ridge of her cheekbone, and despite herself, Salem whimpered. "It was fun while it lasted, my dear, but now it is time for me to bid you _adieu_."

"Crane!" Batman barked.

"This is a very concentrated dosage of my toxin," the Scarecrow continued, loud enough for Batman to hear him. The needles slid from her face to her neck. "Tell me, my dear, what are witches afraid of?"

There was a prick of pain as the needles slid into her flesh. Moments later, it felt as if her blood was on fire. She heard Crane cackle, felt him shove her towards Batman as he turned to flee, but it all seemed like it was very far away. Salem stood there as the toxin rapidly flowed up to her brain and took control of her mind. Everything got very dark and quiet for just a moment...Then the hallucinations flooded in in a torrent.

Water filling her nose and mouth as her mother held her head under in the bathtub. She struggled and tried to claw her way out, but the porcelain sides of the tub were too slippery to find any purchase. Then, it wasn't water any more...it was blood.

"No..." she muttered, shaking her head, trying to make the memories go away.

They didn't.

"Please, Mommy..."

The image of a crucifix being held over the flame of a candle. Salem could see it grow hotter and hotter until it was almost on fire. Then, her mother pressing that cross into the back of her hand, the white hot pain and the stench of burning flesh.

Salem grabbed the sides of her head and fell to her knees, an ear-shattering scream bursting forth from her lips. As she did, psychic energy burst out of her, scatting refuse everywhere. Batman, caught off-guard, was thrown backwards with such a force that he was momentarily dazed.

There were images of Jesus, the man she had so desperately prayed to for the help that never came. She remembered pummeling the framed picture of him with her fist, the sound of broken glass followed by bloody knuckles. The image of Jesus began to laugh.

She saw her mother flying backwards, out of the third story window. Shattering glass, one terrified scream. The image of her broken body laying in the front yard.

_Thou shall not kill_.

The agony as she cut at her hand with a jagged shard of glass, the ragged, bloody mess her flesh became as she tried so desperately to eradicate the mark of the cross. A miasma of blood and incense and her mother's perfume filled her nose and wouldn't go away.

When Batman struggled to his feet and approached her, he found Salem curled up on the floor, clutching at her left hand as if it were bleeding. Tears streamed down her face as she rolled back and forth, begging over and over again for her mother to stop, for someone to please, _please_ help her.

  
*

  
The doctors crowded at the one-way glass to peer into the holding cell at the red-haired woman who sat with her back against the wall, reading a copy of _At the Mountains of Madness_. They muttered and nodded and jotted things down on clipboards. It seemed at the disruptor Batman had installed in the room was working, and the Salem Witch was deemed incapacitated. She would be transferred to a special cell in the basement, a Farraday Cage that would further render her powers useless. One couldn't be too careful.

"Are there any lingering effects of Crane's toxin?" one doctor asked.

"Not that we can see," another piped in.

"Then we will move her to her permanent lodgings tomorrow," Warden Sharpe said. "I want a security detail on her at all times. And I will be assigning Doctor Murphy to her treatment so that Doctor Young may focus her attention on Joker." Everyone nodded in agreement and the doctors all filed out of the room.

It was empty and silent for a moment, then the door swung open as a woman and a man strode up to the glass. The dark-skinned woman dwarfed her male companion, and she wore the sort of severe-looking suit that was only found in government agencies. She walked right up to the glass and folded her arms across her chest, scowling as she studied the Salem Witch carefully. She didn't flinch when Salem looked up from her book and stared directly at her. There was no way the Witch could see her through the one-way glass, but Amanda Waller had a feeling that she knew that she was there.

"I want her file on my desk," she said curtly. "And I want one of our doctors examining her."

"Of course, Ms. Waller," the man said. Amanda Waller had a knack for finding the good ones. That's why they put her in charge.

Inside the room, Salem continued to stare at the glass. She could feel eyes on her even though she couldn't see them; is this what animals at the zoo felt like? She stared down her invisible observer for a moment, then went back to her book. But before she could begin, a voice whispered through her mind like a breeze:

_...Put the monster down_.

Salem sat up and looked around her as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. An eerie feeling descended on her then, almost as if she weren't alone in the room. She shook her head and returned to reading.

_It's a lingering effect of the toxin_ , she thought.  _It has to be_.

  
_**End of Part 1** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in updates! I was hit with the unfortunate combination of writer's block and Fallout 4 (which is a potent cocktail for killing productivity), and then the holidays happened. I'll admit that I came to a point where I wasn't exactly sure which direction I wanted to take Salem in as a character and I was a little intimidated about trying to fit her into the narrative of "Arkham Asylum", simply because that game has the tightest plot out of the entire series. But, after revisiting some of my trusty comic books, I think I figured it out.
> 
> On with the show!


	15. The Beetles

_**Six Months Later** _

_Her insides churned as she felt them eating her alive._

_She could feel them crawling, hundreds of little clawed feet skittering over her bones and through the gaps in her ribs. Their antennae tickled at her organs, and if she looked down she could see their rounded bodies moving beneath her skin. She clawed at her arms, her stomach, her legs in an attempt to rip them out, but they always eluded her. Their pincers gnawed at her insides, slicing through viscera like hot knives. When she tore open her own flesh with her fingernails, two of them crawled out of her, their hard black bodies bloody and glistening._

Salem screamed and flailed about, tangled in the thin sheets of her bed. She sat up and frantically ran a hand along the length of her arm, breathing a sigh of relief when she felt that her flesh was still intact. She flicked on a light clamped above her bed and snatched a composition notebook and a pen from a side table, then jotted down the details of the nightmare before they could fade away. Even in the waking world she could almost feel the beetles crawling around inside of her. How many times had she had this dream now? She flipped back through previous journal entries and counted. Eleven.

She had obsessively asked Dr. Murphy what the symbolism of beetles were, but he informed her that dream analysis was a pseudoscience and refused to look into it for her. Never mind that he was the one who originally suggested that she keep this stupid dream journal in the first place; still, no matter how much she detested it Salem had grown accustomed to writing down her nightmares as they happened. There was something vaguely comforting in jotting down one's thoughts before they could disappear.

It was cool in the basement of Arkham tonight, and thankfully quiet. Sometimes, Croc's tantrums from the sewers below were violent enough to wake her. Other times, Dr. Destiny's screams kept her up at night. Once or twice she heard Bane swearing in Spanish, and Basil Karlo reciting Shakespeare to an invisible audience. She pulled her knees to her chest and stared off into the fathomless darkness as the sensation of insects crawling over her slowly faded away. This was a very different place than minimum security, where assholes shouted and talked all night long and the brain dead babbled away into the early dawn. It was different still from the corridors of Intensive Treatment above. The basement was where they put the special cases, those whose containment needs couldn't be crammed between Poison Ivy's greenhouse and Victor Fries's refrigerator. Or, in the case of Dr. Destiny, it was where they put the patients that Arkham Asylum was more than happy to forget.

Like the others, her containment rendered her powers useless down here. They'd placed her in what they described as a Faraday Cage, a concept that was lost on her. Though it amounted to nothing more than a chain-link fence box, it still somehow managed to render her telekenesis ineffective. No matter how hard she concentrated, the walls stayed where they were, and so did she. She'd tried a thousand times to force her way out, but nothing made the fence budge. Thankfully they supplied her with enough books to keep herself occupied. She glanced at her to-read pile and, noticing that it was beginning to look sparse, reminded herself to ask for a new batch. Flicking on a light, she picked up the novel at the top. Goethe's Faust. Perhaps a bit too heavy for light nighttime reading.

A scratching noise from above caught her attention. Looking up, she saw a tiny movement in the darkness as a rat wriggled its way through the ceiling into her cell. The rodent skittered over her head and down the nearby wall. Salem raised Faust up and held it at the ready to thwack it should it venture too close. This one was particularly large and looked very well-fed, and she wondered with a sinking feeling if it had been feasting on the asylum's larders. It halted at what might be considered a respectable distance and sat up on its haunches, its tiny pink nose trembling. She and the rat stared at one another in a standoff, each waiting for the other to make the first move. That was when she noticed a tiny roll of paper tied around its neck. Salem hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand towards it. The rat sat as obediently as a dog as she untied the paper and unrolled it, a stubby pencil toppling into her lap as she did so. Looking down, she immediately recognized Edward Nigma's scrawling penmanship:

_Hello dearest,_

_I trust this note finds you well. I apologize for the rather alarming courier, but unfortunately there are none better than Otis's rats (I had to trade a week's worth of dessert for the Ratcatcher's services, so I hope you're happy). I hear that they moved you to the basement of all places. How deplorable. Though, I suppose that it's better than Intensive Treatment, which is where they've moved me in light of recent events. Joker's incessant cackling is enough to drive one mad. Supposedly these cells are more difficult to escape from, but seeing as that circus monkey makes a monthly game of it, I'm inclined to disagree. It won't take me long to figure a way out._  
_I've provided you the means to write a response. I recognize that this grade school method of communication is puerile, but we must make do with what we have. Merely tie it around the rat's neck and he (she?) will return to me. I believe Otis told me this rat's name is Ginger. How utterly absurd that he names the rodents._

_-E_

Salem glanced up at the rat, who continued to stare at her in silent expectation, its pale whiskers trembling.

"Ginger, huh?" she asked. The rat flicked its ears. "You don't look like a Ginger to me. I think you're more of a Fizzgig." The rat gave no indication that it understood what she was saying.

 _Of course it isn't, it's a goddamn rat_ , she sourly reminded herself as she began to write her response. The Ratcatcher? Who the hell was he? There were so many loonies in this asylum she'd never heard of before being stashed away in this moldering basement: Maxie Zeus, the Great White Shark ( _really_?), a guy who seriously called himself Killer Moth. Where did they find these people?

Finishing her note she rolled it up and tied it around the rat's neck as instructed. It was almost a little eerie, how it just sat there so obediently, still and quiet as could be. The minute she withdrew her hand, the rat scurried back up the wall and wriggled out of the gaps in the ceiling, disappearing once again into the gloomy dark of Arkham at night. Salem watched it go, then shook her head and flopped back into bed. Passing notes by a rat...she really was in the loony bin now.

She flipped off the light and tried to settle back down, but that was when it began. Faint as it was, it still echoed off the walls in the uncomfortable silence:

_Scritch, scritch, scritch._

Salem sat up again, trying to discern where the noise was coming from. It certainly wasn't the rat coming back for another visit; this noise sounded like it was coming from the other side of the wall.

 _Scritch, scritch_.

"If that's you making that racket, Destiny, I swear I'll pound your face in the pavement!" she snapped into the darkness. The noise persisted.

"What the hell are you barking about?" Dr. Destiny's weak, raspy voice drifted back. He sounded irritated. About what, Salem wasn't sure; Destiny never slept as far as she knew. "I'm not doing anything!"

" _Cállate, bruja_!" Bane snapped from somewhere farther in the basement's depths. "I am trying to sleep!"

She was about to lob a retort when a chill settled over her, the clammy feeling of it prickling her flesh and causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.

_Can...you...hear?_

The whisper was so close to her ear that Salem toppled out of bed onto the concrete floor, stars exploding in her field of vision. Dazed she lay there for a moment, that awful scratching sound echoing loudly in her mind.

"Guards!" she cried as soon as she came to. "Guards! Help!"

Moments later she heard a door open somewhere above, followed by heavy boots tromping down metal stairs. The pale beam of a flashlight dazzled her eyes as the guard on-duty looked into her cell. She couldn't tell who it was.

"What's going on here, Ellis?" Aaron Cash demanded. "Ah, shit, are you bleeding?" She reached up a hand and touched the side of her head and noticed faintly that yes, she was bleeding.

"I'm going to need medical down here," Cash said into a walkie talkie. "The Salem Witch is hurt."

*

"How did you manage to give yourself a low-grade concussion, Miss Ellis?" Dr. Murphy sat at the foot of her bed, glaring over the top of his glasses at her. Salem, still woozy and handcuffed to the bed frame in Medical, glared right back. It quickly melted into a grimace, however, as her head throbbed. They had the damn disruptor collar around her throat now, emitting a silent pulse that blocked her telekenesis. As far as she could tell, it caused a build up of psychic energy in her head that generated the worst migraines of her life. They slapped it on her every time she stepped a toe out of her cage, a parting gift from Batman. If she ever got out of Arkham again, she was going to kill him for giving the doctors the damn thing.

"I told you, I fell out of bed," she grumbled. "This thing is only making my head worse, not better. Why can't you take it off?" Dr. Murphy laughed bitterly.

"And let you loose like last time?" he said. "Not a chance. So long as you're out of your cage, you'll wear it." He pulled something out of a bag beside him and Salem noticed with a groan that it was her dream journal.

"You had the beetle dream again?" he asked, flipping to last night's entry. "Is that what caused you to fling yourself out of bed in the dead of night? Oh, don't look at me like that Miss Ellis, I saw the footage from the security camera. You didn't simply roll off the edge, you pitched yourself onto the floor."

"It wasn't the dream," she replied. "I...I heard a voice. It was right next to me. It asked me...if I could hear." Dr. Murphy rolled his eyes.

"You heard a voice?" he repeated, shutting the journal with a dull snap. "I shall have to consult with Dr. Adams and see about getting your medication changed." She didn't like what he was implying.

"I know what I heard," Salem snarled, though she immediately winced.

"Merely a side effect of isolation," the doctor said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Many patients incarcerated in the basement report feelings of paranoia and hearing voices at night. I'd blame Dr. Destiny, but there's simply no way he's responsible. This will pass once you become accustomed to your surroundings. Until then, I will prescribe you a sleeping pill to prevent this from happening again." Great, yet another pill to swallow with her daily cocktail. It was a wonder Salem could even stand these days.

"Once you have recovered, I will also institute group therapy," Dr. Murphy continued. "Perhaps some supervised socialization will help."

"Can I make a request?" she asked. The doctor didn't seem to enjoy her sarcasm.

"I will confer with the other doctors to see who would be an adequate match given your...temperament," he replied. "But I can assure you that Mr. Nigma will be kept very, very far away. We won't make the same mistake twice."

"Oh darn," Salem sneered.

"Keep up that attitude, Miss Ellis, and you won't like my recommendation," Murphy threatened. "Now please try to get some rest. I'll have the nurse bring you a book to keep you occupied." With that, he left. Moments later Nurse Emmy came in bearing Faust. She unceremoniously dumped it into Salem's lap, glanced at the monitor beside her bed, then left. Heaving a sigh, she opened it and began reading. Still, even now that strange noise persisted in the back of her mind. She knew what it sounded like: it sounded like someone scratching at the concrete. It was rhythmic, almost like...writing. But it didn't make any sense. There was nothing on the other side of that wall, and certainly no one.

 _Can...you...hear_? the voice had rasped, a distant echo. She had to wonder...what was it she was supposed to be listening for?


	16. The Warning

Back in the basement again. After the painful brightness of the medical ward, everything looked twice as dark to Salem's eyes as they did before. As the elevator opened she and her guards met another orderly wheeling Dr. Destiny up for his weekly medical exam. His Arkham uniform hung off of an emaciated form, and it seemed that even the weight of his withered, skeletal head was too much for him to bear. He wheezed with every breath he took, an oxygen tank in his lap. Salem tried her best not to wince at the sight of him, and made a note to never try and take on the entire Justice League by herself. Luckily the guards themselves didn't seem to want to be in Destiny's presence more than they had to, and they whisked her away back to her cell. Somewhere in the distance she heard Clayface at it again, this time reciting a monologue she recognized from _Titus Andronicus_.

Home sweet home.

That night she got a note from Edward via the rat courier. She'd saved a little crust from what was supposed to be a dinner roll, which she offered to the rodent as she unrolled the note and read it, expecting another impossible riddle, perhaps a corny line from a sonnet she barely recognized. But this time, there were only four words:

_Amanda Waller is here_.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Amanda Waller? She'd never heard that name before. She was about to write an angry reply when it felt like a wintry wind blew through the basement. The rat, who up until now had been contentedly munching on its bread, gave a squeal and scurried out of her cell, disappearing into the darkness.

"Well that's just great," Salem grumbled, just as the light above her bed flickered and then died. That was when that awful scratching noise began again.

"Who's there?" she demanded in a harsh whisper. "What do you want with me?"

_Can...you...hear?_ the voice rasped, just as it had before, though now it sounded as if it was a little clearer. Salem clenched her fists, crinkling Edward's note in her palm as her heart began to race.

"I can hear you," she said into the darkness. "What do you want?" The scratching noise stopped abruptly and her light clicked back on as if nothing had happened. Salem looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was playing this prank on her, but there was no one to be seen. The only evidence she had of the encounter were the goosebumps all along her arms, and the unmistakable feeling of her hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She unclenched her fists and looked down at the note once again, at the words _Amanda Waller is here_ and wondering just what the hell was going on. Had the madhouse finally gone mad?

*

"Bart, I'd like to make a request for my next batch of books," Salem said as the orderly took a pile of books off of his cart. He rolled his eyes.

"What, my choices aren't good enough for ya' Professor?" he asked. She only rolled her eyes and kept her distance as he slid them through a slat in the door one by one, where they plopped on the concrete floor in a messy pile. She winced as one of the books landed and bent its paperback cover.

"Your choices have been entertaining, to say the least," she replied. "Though I'm not really sure how _Hot in Havanna_ constitutes as classic literature."

"Quinn requests that book at least once a month," he said. "I thought all you broads were into romance novels."

"What I'm looking for are books on the occult," Salem said, trying to sound as flippant as possible. Bart gave her a stern, somewhat wary glance.

"The occult?" he repeated. "You mean like Satanic sacrifice shit?" She rolled her eyes.

"Satanic sacrifices are an urban legend," she replied, striding over to gather the pile of books into her arms. "The occult refers to all manner of things: astrology, tarot, magic...ghosts. You know, that sort of stuff."

"What the hell do you want with all that mumbo-jumbo?" he asked.

"Maybe I want to know what it really means to be an Aries," she said, laying the books out on her bed. "Or, maybe I'll research how to cast a spell on you." She turned and wiggled her fingers at him dramatically.

"Whatever," Bart said. "If you wanna waste your time reading about a bunch of malarky, I can't really stop you. I'll see what I can find."

"Aleister Crowley's writings should be in the public domain," Salem said as she leafed through a copy of Letters from the Underground. "I'd start there." Bart rolled his eyes.

"Fine, fine," he said, "but don't get your hopes up. I doubt I can find any weird shit like that in a place like this."

Moments after Bart had trundled off two guards appeared at her door with a pair of handcuffs in hand. One of them pulled out a device from his pocket and pressed a button, activating Salem's disruptor collar. She could hear the faint ringing in her ears as soon as it turned on.

"C'mon, Ellis, it's group therapy time," he said, sounding as unenthusiastic as she did. Salem heaved an exasperated sigh and held out her wrists as the one with the cuffs approached her and the other stood back with a gun pointed at her head. Once she was secure, they lugged her into the elevator and whisked her down the twisting halls of Arkham to a room she'd never seen before. An anguished howl echoed from somewhere down the hall, and Salem could've sworn she heard Joker's cackle coming from the opposite direction. When the one guard opened the door and the other ushered her inside, Salem was greeted with a swampy smell, like that of a scummy pond or maybe even a poorly-maintained fish tank. She was about to ask what that smell was when she was greeted with a hulking, scaly form sitting against the opposite wall.

Killer Croc was chained to the wall with links that were surely too large and thick for even him to break. Salem had never seen him up close before and she was immediately struck with just how large he was. She dimly remembered Edward saying that he was at least eleven feet tall and he was muscle-bound from head to toe. The seams of his ripped Arkham-issue pants were pushed to their limits, and his broad chest was too large to accommodate even the largest shirt. The largest of the grayish scales that covered his body were easily as big as her hand, their surface hard and sleek as steel. His face was a strange amalgamation of human and reptile, with protruding fangs, slit nostrils, and yellow eyes. A thick metal collar was strapped around his throat and it crackled with electricity.

Salem involuntarily took a step back as her eyes met Killer Croc's, her mind racing with all of the headlines. Croc ate people, it was a well-known fact; she'd seen evidence of it when she'd broken out of Arkham.

"Don't worry, I'm not hungry," he rumbled bitterly, almost as if he could read her mind. Gravelly as it was, she could hear the drawl of the Louisiana bayou in his voice.

"I don't know what you did to piss off Doc Murphy, Ellis," the guard said as he unlocked the handcuffs and gave her a little push into the room. "But he must be real mad to stick you in a room with this monster. Just...Keep your distance, will ya? I don't wanna have to scrape your innards off the wall." Croc growled at the guard and Salem saw his yellow eyes burning with rage. The chains clanked as he strained against them.

"Don't talk about me like I'm not in the room, Jenkins," he snapped. "Or I'll make sure _you're_ my next meal." Salem rubbed at her wrists and stepped into the room. She could hear her mother's voice in the back of her mind, declaring her as an abomination. She knew how much those words hurt.

"I'll be fine," she said. "You can leave now." The guard was happy to oblige, and he nearly slammed the door behind him in his haste to retreat from the room. Her and Croc stared at each other in tense silence, each sizing the other up. She settled into a battered chair opposite him and pulled her knees up to her chest, never once taking her eyes off of him.

"I didn't see you at Joker's little sit down after the breakout," she said at length. "Why?" Croc snorted.

"Politics," he replied. "I don't have time for them. And the clowns annoy me." She noticed he had a slight lisp, probably from trying to talk around a mouth full of knives.

"That's one thing we have in common, then," she said. "I know they call you Killer Croc, but I assume you have an actual name. What is it?" He seemed a little taken aback by that.

"Waylon," he said. "Waylon Jones."

"Salem Ellis," she said, placing a hand on her chest. "So, what are we supposed to do, Waylon? Just sit here and stare at each other?" His chuckle was more like a rumble.

"I guess so," he said. He shook the chains around his arms. "I can't exactly do much else while I'm chained to the wall." The media always painted Killer Croc as a mindless monster lurking in Gotham's sewer system, preying on whoever he could get his mouth around. Though she couldn't speak for him while he was free, Croc seemed to be far more civil than she expected. Perhaps there was a man beneath the fangs and scales after all.

"I noticed you were reading _Faust_ the other day," he continued. Salem raised a brow. "I always look to see what you're reading. They never give me books down in the sewers."

"Have you read it before?" she asked.

"Twice," Croc replied. Salem smiled.

"Then perhaps you'd like to discuss it," she said. "Tell me, Waylon, would you strike a bargain with the Devil if it meant that you could get what you want?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello to all of the new people who have stopped by and read this fic. I checked on it the other day and saw that it was at 360 views and it made me feel all warm and mushy inside :)
> 
> I've never been a fan of simply portraying Killer Croc as this stupid, rage-y Godzilla lurking in the sewage system. While I don't think Croc is as brilliant a strategist as some of the other rogues, I've always liked the portrayals that seek to humanize him and at least give him a little credit. I know in some incarnations he's supposed to be from Louisiana, so I decided to roll with that. You know, because gators and swamps and all.


	17. Liminality

Stars exploded in Salem's vision and she reeled from the blow to her jaw. She stumbled back against the wall as the coppery taste of blood flooded into her mouth. Steadying herself, she braced herself for the next punch but her anticipation did little to dull the pain. She wondered briefly if it made it better or worse that her attacker was a complete stranger as he rubbed at his reddened knuckles. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up and his tie was loosened; he wore a pair of opaque sunglasses to help conceal his features.

"I won't ask you again," a woman's voice cut in sharply. "Where is Edward Nigma?" Salem's gaze shifted to the dark-skinned woman across the room. She was stern-faced, her arms folded across her chest as she passively watched her crony bludgeon Salem with blow after blow. Salem dabbed at her split lip and winced.

She'd found out who Amanda Waller was the hard way.

"I already told you, _I don't know_ ," she replied. "And telling your gorilla to beat it out of me isn't going to change that. I don't know what makes you think that I'd know where Edward's scuttled off to-" Amanda Waller gave the man a nod and he grabbed Salem by the collar of her Arkham uniform and slammed her against the wall as he hoisted her up on her tip-toes. Waller strode across the room and pulled a folded piece of paper out of her coat pocket. She unfolded it and waved it in her face, and though she couldn't read it Salem immediately recognized one of the notes her and Edward had passed back and forth.

"Don't think I'm not aware of your little attachment," she said. "This is the last time I'll ask: _where is he_?" Salem's brow knitted into a dark line and she felt her psychic energy strain against the disruptor strapped around her neck. But it was like pushing against a solid wall; nothing happened.

"I don't make it a habit to discuss professional endeavors with my paramours," she said. "It's simpler that way." Waller crumpled the note in her hand and stepped back. Her crony slammed Salem down onto the floor and blood spurted from her nose.

"If I find out you're lying to me, Salem," Waller said, "you'll be as dead as your little boyfriend." The man dealt her a swift kick to the ribs and Salem yelped and curled into a ball. She didn't move until two Arkham guards came in and hauled her onto her feet. They put her arms over their shoulders and half-dragged her out of the room. Every inch of her hurt, and Salem was sure that at least two of her molars were loose in her jaw.

"Who the fuck does she think she is?" she asked.

"She's government, kid," one of the guards said. "She comes in all the time, recruitin' for her Suicide Squad."

"Suicide Squad?" she echoed. "What the hell is that?" She was vaguely aware of being in the elevator; she looked down and watched as a drop of blood from her nose spattered on the floor.

"It's Amanda Waller's pet project," the other guard replied. "No one's really sure what they do. All we know is she takes inmates out of here every once in awhile. Sometimes they come back and sometimes they don't." It looked like Edward had somehow ended up on Amanda Waller's list, and from what little of her Salem had seen, being on that woman's list was very, very bad.

Her world was spinning as they laid her out on her mattress, and it only stopped spinning when she finally blacked out from the pain.

*

When she opened her eyes some time later, pain washed over Salem's entire being in a wave. Her left eye was swollen shut and her jaw ached with even the tinest of movements. She groaned and shut her eyes again.

"Damn. You look like hell." Salem's eye snapped open again when she heard Bart's familiar voice. Was that a note of genuine pity she detected? She turned her head and saw him standing on the other side of the door to her cell, two hard-bound books in his hands. Their covers were old, the leather cracked and flaking.

"Hey, uh, I heard about how you got roughed up," Bart continued. "So I know it's a little early or whatever, but I had Clarice down in the library dig these up for you. Looks like there was a whole collection on that occult stuff that belonged to Old Man Arkham back in the 20s, but she only let me take these two." He went to slide them through the slot like the others he brought her, but he stopped. "Better come take 'em from me. Clarice told me if I damaged 'em I'd be payin' for 'em." Salem groaned and pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing as the pain seemed to throb and rattle around in her head. She rose to her feet arthritically and clutched at her sore ribs as she shuffled over to the door. She took the books one at a time as Bart carefully slid them through to her.

"I probably don't have to tell you this, but be careful with those things, will ya? They're old and probably fragile," Bart said. "And don't go squawkin' about 'em either. The library thinks I checked 'em out for my sister. She's into those stupid ghost hunter shows on TV." Leaning against the chain-link wall of her cell, Salem ran a finger over the aged leather cover, her fingertip tracing the pattern of the embossed pentagram.

"Why did you do this for me?" she asked, looking up at him. Bart shrugged and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"No reason," he muttered. Then, he added, "Look, I'm not supposed to say anything to ya about it, but I figured you'd like to know. They brought your buddy in last night while you were out cold." Salem scowled.

"I'm afraid I don't have 'buddies,'" she said, hugging the books to her chest.

"Sure ya do," Bart said. "You and the Riddler seemed pretty chummy back when you orchestrated that breakout. Batman dragged him in here after he escaped a couple days ago. It was funny...Nigma usually throws a trantrum when the Bat brings him back, screamin' about how he'll get the best of him next time, but this time he was as calm as could be. Quiet, even. It was weird." Salem was surprised when she felt a sense of relief at this news; if Batman got to Edward first, then that meant that Amanda Waller didn't.

"Is he all right?" she asked.

"Why would you care? I thought you didn't have buddies."

"It's complicated." Bart raised an eyebrow at that.

"What, is he your boyfriend or somethin'?" he asked. "Trust me, you could do better than that guy." Salem snorted.

"Please," she replied. "I'm a busy woman. I don't have time to date." Bart didn't seem convinced. He huffed and kicked at some imaginary dust on the floor.

"You got them books for two weeks," he said, nodding a the volumes clutched to her chest. "You better start reading, Professor." With that, he turned and sauntered off. Salem waited until she heard the elevator doors snap shut before she hobbled back over to her bed and laid the books out on her mattress. One was by Aleister Crowley, while the other, the one with the pentagram cover, had no discernible title or author. She reached out a hand towards the Crowley tome, but stopped and instead moved to her pillow. Casting a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she picked it up and dug a hand down into the pillowcase.

She pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded over and over again until it was very tiny, so tiny that it would escape the guards' half-hearted attempts at searching her cell every week. Settling on the edge of the mattress, she carefully opened it and smoothed it out in her lap. The graphite words were smudged but still legible, and Salem allowed herself to smile as she re-read it for what felt like the hundreth time. It was the only one of Edward's notes that she'd ever kept. In it, he'd outlined what they would do when they were both out of Arkham again.

_I know just the thing_ , the note read. _We'll go to Antonio's for dinner. They have the best chicken parmesan in Gotham. Then, I happen to know a member of the Maroni family who is also a rare book connoisseur. Since he owes me a favor or two, I could convince him to give us a private showing of his collection. He has a wonderful catalog of first editions, including one by Percy Shelley that I know you would be delighted with._

It was the last little message of his before his warning about Amanda Waller. Salem had penciled in _I would like that_ , but she never got a chance to send it. Even now the words created a warmth that settled in the pit of her stomach that she hadn't felt since...Well, in a very long time. She folded the note again and tucked it into its hiding place, then picked up Crowley's book on magic and began to read.

*

Salem sat cross-legged in the middle of her cell, her hands resting on her knees. She breathed as deeply and slowly as her smoker's lungs would allow; once or twice she coughed and her lungs ached.

_Psychics have one foot in the realm of the living and another in the realm of the dead_ , she had read. _They exist in a liminal state, simultaneously a part of this world and apart from it._

She felt strange. Her skin prickled beneath her Arkham uniform and she could feel the hairs rising up on the back of her neck. The book had said to be still and calm, to let her mind empty of thoughts.

_A psychic is a conduit, a messenger of spirits_ , the book continued. _Should the psychic be inclined, they may open themselves up to these spirits and thus learn untold knowledge or perhaps even receive guidance._

It was quiet in the basement, and she thought briefly that she could hear the blood rushing through her veins. Her heart fluttered with anticipation as she formed words in her mind, then imagined pushing them out of her, like leaf on the current.

_**Who are you?**_ she asked. The light overhead flickered and a chill settled over her. Her eyes snapped open when she felt a presence materialize in the room with her. She could feel it behind her, oppressive and solid, but she resisted the urge to turn and look. She instead picked up her dream journal and a pencil and laid it in her lap, open to a blank page. She waited, the tip of her pencil hovering expectantly over the paper. She let her eyes become unfocused as she stared off into space. Then, as if out of its own volition, her pencil began to move across the page. When it stopped, she looked down at what she'd written:

_I am Arkham._

_**Why are you talking to me?**_ she asked next. A moment passed after her thought, then the pencil began to move again.

_Because you can hear_ , the response read.

_**But how? This has never happened before**_. For a moment, Salem realized just how strange the sensation of her pencil moving unconsciously across the page was. She felt like a puppet, with someone else pulling the strings. When she read the writing this time, her heart skipped a beat.

_The man who thinks he controls fear opened the door_.

Before she could prepare another question, a siren blared throughout the entire building, the loudness of it shattering Salem's concentration. She jumped, her pencil falling from numb fingers as it clattered on the floor. The presence she'd felt winked out like a light and disappeared. Red lights above the guard station began to flash on and off. Salem recognized the sound, knew what it meant even before the voice droned over the loudspeaker:

_Breakout in Intensive Treatment. Alert. Breakout in Intensive Treatment_.

There was a heavy click, and the door to Salem's cell swung open. She gasped as she felt psychic energy flow out of her, like water bursting from a dam. Freed from the hold of the Farraday Cage, it surged through her body, quick and angry. There were no guards here to activate the disruptor collar around her neck, which meant...

Upstairs she heard screams, the sounds of gunfire, and she smiled. Rising to her feet, she stepped out of her cage and stretched, both physically and mentally. Moments later, a guard came rushing towards her from the station, a handgun pointed at her.

"On the ground!" he barked. Salem cocked her head, a smirk playing across her bruised and battered features. She could see the gun tremble from the guard's shaking hands. Her hand shot up and her power burst forth with a renewed vigor; the guard was thrown back so hard and so fast, he didn't even have time to yelp before he hit the wall and his spine snapped. Salem cracked her knuckles before she went to retrieve the pistol and whatever ammo the guard had on him.

Then, she turned and made for the elevator.


	18. Breakout Blackout

The elevator doors opened on chaos.

Salem had largely avoided the pandemonium of the last breakout, but as she stepped out into the hallway she found herself in the midst of it. Inmates in various states of undress were rampaging through the rooms and down the halls, chasing guards, nurses, and doctors alike. Screams and mad laughter mixed with gunfire and the sound of breaking glass. She watched as one particularly deranged patient launched himself onto a fleeing doctor like a lion pouncing on its prey, cackling as he pounded at the man's head with bare fists.

Guards in riot gear appeared at the far end of the hall, bracing against their plastic shields as they tried to push the tide of bodies back. Even at this distance she could see their assault rifles, and she wondered if the order of "Shoot to Kill" had been issued yet. Salem decided not to find out. She turned and went in the opposite direction, shoving past any inmates in her way. She had very little interest in joining in the festivities; her goal was escape. Outside the sirens wailed and echoed in the courtyard as the automated voice continued to drone _Breakout in Intensive Treatment_. After the relative silence of the basement, the cacophony of noise made her head throb, but she doggedly continued on. Better to have a headache than be slowly driven insane by disembodied voices claiming to be the spirit of Amadeus Arkham.

"On the ground, inmate!" Despite the command, Salem could hear the waver of uncertainty in the guard's voice as she rounded a corner and he jumped out of a broom closet door. The muzzle of his gun wavered as he swallowed hard and tried to put on a brave face. How pathetic. She considered merely shooting him, but the chance to stretch her powers was too tempting. She held up a hand and he flew backwards and hit the wall hard enough for him to drop his gun. He doubled over as he coughed and gasped for breath; Salem reached out and grabbed a fistful of the man's hair with the intent to smash his head against the wall. But as soon as her fingers made contact with his flesh she felt something jolt through her. Her arm felt almost numb in its wake and then the guard let out a cry of agony as a scene flashed behind her eyes; in it, she saw the world through his eyes, and she saw his wife in bed with another man. She gasped and let go, and the man collapsed. Horrified, Salem looked from her hand to the guard on the ground, then back to her hand. She prodded him with the toe of her plastic shoe, and felt relief when he groaned. He was still alive.

_What the hell did I just do?_

Whatever time she had to ponder this latest development was cut short by the distinctive click of a firearm behind her. Salem whirled on her would-be attacker and came face-to-face with the Joker's rictus grin.

"Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble!" he said in a sing-song voice. "Enjoying the party, are we?" He chuckled.

"I was never much of one for parties," Salem replied. She tried to adopt the easy, disdainful attitude Edward had regarding the Joker, but it was difficult to maintain when the Clown Prince of Crime was pointing a gun at you. Joker lowered the gun and approached her, dealing the unconscious guard a swift kick to the stomach as he laid a lanky arm across her shoulders.

"You know, Slim, I'm thinking we maybe got off on the wrong foot," he remarked, pulling her closer to him. Salem instinctively tensed.

"You don't say," she said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. She wasn't sure she was entirely convincing. Joker tapping the muzzle of the gun against her cheek wasn't exactly helping matters.

"You know what your problem is, toots?" he went on. "You're too _serious_! All that doom and gloom isn't good for you, you know! I mean, look at Bats! All he does is brood, and he's the lamest guy at the party!" He suddenly pressed the muzzle into her cheek so hard she could feel it against her teeth. "And you know what I hate? A party pooper." Salem was having a hard time understanding how Edward didn't take this guy seriously. The gun lingered there for a moment before being pulled away. Joker swung around to face her and pressed the gun to her forehead.

"If you can make me laugh, I'll let you go."

Salem froze. She'd never been very good at jokes. Snide remarks and witty banter, sure, but jokes? She contemplated throwing him down the hall, but if this guy got off by having Batman pummel him to a pulp with his fists she doubted a little flying lesson would do much good.

"C'mon Slim, even Jonny's got jokes!" Joker said, pulling the pistol's hammer back. "Are you gonna let old Doc Crane put you to shame?" Salem felt a bead of sweat run down the back of her neck.

"H-How about a gag?" she offered. "A gag instead of a joke?" Joker's expression was halfway between a grin and a sneer.

"Go on." Salem swallowed, hoping that this would work.

"Next time you happen by a church...replace the holy water with acid."

There was a tense moment of silence before Joker burst out laughing, the sound of it seeming to rattle her very bones. He pulled the gun away from her as he doubled over, hooting and cackling all the while.

"Replace the holy water with _acid_!" he exclaimed. He straightened and wiped an imaginary tear away from the corner of his eye. "Boy Slim, I pegged you wrong from the get go! You've got a sense of humor after all!"

Stars exploded in Salem's vision as Joker slammed the butt of his gun into the back of her head. She reeled from the blow as she felt her grasp of consciousness slipping rapidly. Joker's mad laughter filled her ears as she dropped to the floor and blackness enveloped her.

*

Her sense of smell returned to her faster than her eyesight, and she was overwhelmed with a murky, moldy stench. As consciousness returned to her she could feel hard concrete against her back, and when she opened her eyes she could see the curvature of a vaulted ceiling high above her. Moments later, a massive shadow fell across her as Killer Croc loomed large, the dim light cutting dramatic shadows across his reptilian features. She saw that the electrified collar around his neck was mangled and sparking. Salem sat up slowly, keeping an eye on him. As her eyes adjusted she saw that they were somewhere in the sewers of Gotham. She touched the back of her head and winced when she felt a massive lump there.

"Where are we?" she asked. The sewers were dim and dank and smelled like mold and sewage, with a river of dark water rushing through the middle of the tunnel. She and Croc were perched on a concrete walkway, and she could see a ladder leading up nearby.

"Underneath Gotham City," Waylon replied, his gravelly voice echoing in the chamber. He glanced around then added, "Eighteenth and Jameson." Salem pushed herself to her feet and felt her hand brush something hard and metallic; looking down, she saw the pistol she'd taken off the guard at Arkham. She put the safety on and shoved it into the waistband of her pants. Now that she was standing, she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her and she held out a hand to steady herself on the wall. Her stomach lurched when she felt the slimy coating on the bricks.

"How did I get here?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"I found you in the hall," Waylon replied. "You were unconscious. I picked you up and took you with me through the sewers to the city. A kindness for a kindness."

"'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,'" she said. "Matthew 7:12." Croc scowled.

"I thought you hated the Bible," he said. Salem chuckled.

"No one knows the Bible better than the Devil," she replied. "Thank you, Waylon." He grunted.

"What happened?" she asked, gingerly touching the lump on her head.

"Who knows, who cares," Croc replied.  He jerked his head in the direction of the ladder. "We're even now, Witch," he said. "That ladder will put you out in a secluded alley. Now get out of here. I'm hungry." Salem didn't need to be told twice. She nodded her thanks and darted off to the ladder and began climbing as quickly as she could. Behind her there was a massive splash as Killer Croc dove into the water and swam off. When she reached the manhole cover she found that it was too heavy for her to move on her own. Clutching to the slimy ladder with one hand, she pushed against the cover with the other and strained her powers against it. She breathed a sigh of relief as it slid back enough for her to wriggle out. Clean air flooded into her lungs, and she flopped onto the concrete like a dead fish. She laid there for a moment and tried to relish the feeling of freedom despite the throbbing in her head. It was oddly quiet in the city, making the sounds of sirens and helicopters overhead that much more pronounced. Then, from somewhere across town, she heard a massive explosion. The sound of it startled her and she jumped to her feet, fumbling for the pistol as she slipped on what might have been rotting fruit from a nearby dumpster. There was nothing in her immediate vicinity, but she did see a massive fireball rise up from somewhere in the Diamond District. Three black and white GCPD cruisers flew by in the street, sirens screaming as they drove towards it. Salem groaned and leaned up against a graffiti-covered wall. Everything hurt, but she knew that she couldn't hide out in this alley forever. Heaving a sigh, she started towards the alley's entrance, silently gauging how far she had to go. Ten blocks?

"Son of a bitch," she groaned aloud.

*

It was past closing time when she finally arrived at her destination, but Salem knew somebody would still be inside, counting the money and sweeping the floors. She lingered across the street, studying the facade of The Bunker Bar as memories of past visits rolled through her head. She glanced up and down the street before stumbling across and walking up to the door. Salem pushed against it and found that it was locked. She heard a familiar muffled voice from inside say "We're closed! Go home ya drunk!" She briefly considered forcing the door open with her telekinesis, but decided that that wasn't the best course of action. Jerry knew her well enough, but he was one of James's friends, not hers. She rapped on the glass in the distinctive pattern James showed her the first time they came here.

_If you're ever in trouble or need a place to stay, Jerry'll take care of you_.

There was a pause, then she heard footsteps approaching the door. The deadbolt gave way with a hearty thunk and Jerry opened the door just enough to see who it was. Even though Salem saw the glint of a pistol in his other hand, she shoved her way through before Jerry could object or slam the door shut in her face. He yelped, but made no move to raise the gun; instead he looked outside to make sure she wasn't followed, then slammed it shut and locked it again.

"Jesus Christ!" Jerry exclaimed. "I thought you were in Arkham! And what the hell do you think you're doing here?" Salem set her pistol down on the bar and slid behind it, snatching a glass and a bottle of bourbon off of the shelf. She poured herself a glass as Jerry came waddling across the room as fast as he could. He was middle-aged, overweight, and balding, with a graying, bristling mustache that was reminiscent of a walrus. The white apron he wore tied around his waist was stained from decades of barkeeping.

"You gotta pay for that," he said sternly, but one glare from Salem was enough to make him wilt. She drained her first glass in one gulp, then poured herself another.

"There was a breakout," she said, turning around to rummage through the packs of cigarettes Jerry sold behind the bar. She picked out a box of Marlboros and began tapping the top of it against the palm of her hand. "I need to stay upstairs." Jerry scowled and tried his best to look indignant.

"Absolutely not," he snapped. "You're one of those Asylum loonies now, I can't have you here! What if the GCPD shows up? What if Batman shows up?" The mere prospect of having the Dark Knight in his establishment was enough to make Jerry go a little pale. Salem ripped off the cellophane packaging and flipped the cigarette box open. She pulled two from inside and placed them both in her mouth. Fishing under the bar, she found Jerry's battered American flag lighter and lit them both. She held out one to him. He glared at it, then her. Salem rolled her eyes.

"Would you relax, Jerry?" she said around the cigarette still in her mouth. "Nobody saw me come here. They probably don't even know I'm gone yet." He reached out and took the cigarette.

"How do you know?" he asked, exhaling a puff of smoke. The nicotine seemed to immediately calm his nerves. Salem took another gulp of bourbon.

"Because Joker pulled the lever this time," she replied. "I don't know, I was stuck in the basement like a box of Christmas ornaments. The point is, everything was nuts and nobody saw me escape." Jerry was quiet for a moment, staring at the smoldering tip of his cigarette.

"James is serving two consecutive life sentences in Blackgate because of you," he said at last. Salem looked down into her glass and the amber liquid it contained.

"I know," she said. She drained the glass then poured herself another. "He made his choice."

"Like hell he did," Jerry retorted. "You made it for him. I told him you was capitalizing on his grief for his kid sister, but he wouldn't listen-" Jerry was cut off abruptly as Salem raised a hand and lifted him off the floor.

"I wasn't capitalizing on anyone's grief," she snarled. "I loved Elise just as much as he did. He wanted retribution as much as me. James cast his lot in with me out of his own volition, and next time you try to say otherwise I'll smash your skull against a wall. Understand?" Jerry nodded so vigorously Salem wondered if his head would fly off. Rather than let him down easily, she dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He hit the floor hard. Salem shoved the cigarettes in her pocket and snatched up both the empty glass and the bottle of bourbon as she made for a door close to the bar. It opened without her touching the doorknob, and she saw a rickety-looking staircase leading up to the small, single room apartment she knew was on the second floor.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me," she said before the door slammed shut behind her.


	19. Every Villain Needs a Costume

Salem awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door. She groaned as she opened her eyes and the stabbing pain of a hangover began to throb behind her eyes. She blinked and glanced over at the bottle of bourbon sitting on the bedside table, grimacing when she saw that it was mostly empty. The ashtray next to it, however, was mostly full. The knocking on the door persisted, only making her headache worse.

"Give me a minute!" she snapped, her voice hoarse. She slowly dragged herself out of bed and rummaged in the closet for anything that wasn't the crumpled Arkham uniform on the floor. She pulled out an oversized Gotham Knights T-shirt with a ketchup stain on its collar and pulled it over her head. She had no idea who it belonged to, but it came halfway down her thighs so it was good enough for her. The knocking started up again.

"For fuck's sake, I told you to give me a minute!" she snarled as she flung it open, expecting Jerry to be on the other side. What she found was a rather large man with a spider web tattoo on the side of his neck and a buzzcut. Both parties looked rather shocked at seeing one another.

"Uh...You're the Salem Witch, right?" the guy asked stupidly. Salem contemplated throwing him down the stairs, but she suddenly felt nauseous.

"That's me," she replied rubbing at the corners of her eyes. "Who the hell are you?" The man gingerly held out a pale green envelope to her. She recognized the scrawl that her name was written in almost immediately and she snatched it out of the man's hand.

"Mr. Nigma said you'd be here," he said. "And he told me to give that to you." With that, the man turned and tromped back down the stairs, each step groaning under his weight. Salem felt another wave of nausea roll through her, and she quickly shut the door and returned to bed. Her eyes hurt and her head felt like someone was jackhammering her brain, but she still tore the letter open.

_Salem,_

_If you are reading this, then you have somehow managed to escape Arkham Asylum while I was unable to (how exactly that occurred is beyond me). I knew of your former partner's connection to this establishment and its subsequent safehouse, so I hope that this letter finds you well._

_It is my suggestion that you resist your pugilistic urges to raze Gotham's religious architecture to the ground and instead pay a visit to the Iceberg Lounge. Mister Cobblepot is an old friend of mine, and he is willing to provide you with firearms as a favor to me. Choose whatever you like. I also took the liberty of commissioning you a costume from the Tailor. Every villain in this city is in need of one, and the Tailor is the best in the business for people of our predilections. Oswald will provide you with a car to take you to him after you've finished your shopping. I estimated your measurements, and while I doubt that I am off by much, the Tailor will be able to alter it._

_I will join you once I am free of this deplorable asylum, but for now I leave you with this riddle:_

_**Of no use to one,** _  
_**Yet absolute bliss to two.** _  
_**The small boy gets it for nothing.** _  
_**The young man has to lie or work for it.** _  
_**The old man has to buy it.** _  
_**The baby’s right,** _  
_**The lover’s privilege,** _  
_**The hypocrite’s mask.** _  
_**To the young girl, faith;** _  
_**To the married woman, hope;** _  
_**To the old maid, charity.** _  
_**What am I?** _

Salem groaned and let the letter fall to her chest. She wasn't in the mood for riddles, and just being awake made her head ache. Closing her eyes she settled back under the covers, hoping that a few more hours of sleep would help her hangover go away. Just before she drifted off to sleep, however, the answer to the riddle popped into her head.

A kiss. The answer was a kiss.

*

It was well past eleven at night when Salem finally came downstairs, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She'd dug out a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that James had stashed away for her over a year ago, but she noticed with chagrin that the pants were a little tighter than she remembered. Jerry was wiping down the bar as she came through the door. Thankfully there were no patrons. The Bunker Bar was just a front, though; Salem knew Black Mask used it as a drop-off for his drug operation.

"Is the motorcycle still in the garage out back?" she asked, trying to adjust her pants so they weren't riding up her ass. She wasn't successful.

"Yeah," Jerry replied curtly. "Your license still valid?" Salem rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette.

"I'm an escaped convict and you're worried about my motorcycle licence?" she asked. "Christ, Jerry. Just give me the keys." He reached under the bar and tossed them over to her.

"Just don't crash it, will ya?" he asked. Salem said nothing as she ducked out another door that led into the alley. She unlocked the garage and slid the door up, revealing Jame's motorcycle. It was a sleek black affair, built for speed and quick turns. She picked up the helmet with its tinted visor and pulled it on before swinging one leg over the saddle. She put the keys in the ignition and the motorcycle roared to life. She rolled it out into the alley, then took off towards the Bowery.

How many times had James joked that Salem's love of fast vehicles was bred into her? He probably wasn't wrong; the Indianapolis 500 was a big deal in her town, even though most of them couldn't ever make it up to the race in person. The boys all tinkered with their cars, trying to modify them so they would be as fast and loud as the ones they saw on TV. When Dale Earnhardt died Melody practically went into a state of mourning. Salem had never understood the appeal of NASCAR races, but after taking a ride on the back of Jame's first motorcycle she found that she enjoyed the feeling of raw power and the wind against her. He taught her to ride, then shortly afterwards showed up with the one she was riding now. Its serial number was filed off, so she was fairly certain that it was stolen, but that didn't change anything.

She didn't hit any traffic until the Bowery. It looked like some sort of benefit dinner was going on at the museum tonight, and the streets were choked with black cars piloted by drivers in crisp black suits. Valets stepped forward to open the doors and help the bejeweled women out of the cars, their husbands following in stiff tuxes that they obviously hated to wear. She could hear a string quartet playing inside. Banners announcing the Treasure of Akhnaten hung between the massive pillars on the museum's facade. Salem idly wondered how long it would take for Catwoman to pillage the exhibition as she weaved her way through the mess of cars.

When she pulled up to the curb of the Iceberg Lounge, Salem suddenly realized that she was about to walk through the front door of a very crowded club. Oswald Cobblepot was a known criminal, but was it really wise for her to just waltz in like nothing was wrong? Would someone call the cops on her? She was about to try and pull around to a back alley when a man in a tuxedo approached her. A nametag hanging from his lapel named him Vinny, and below that in smaller print was the word "Valet."

"Do you require valet parking, Miss?" he asked. Salem flipped up her visor, hoping that her distinctive eyes would be enough to identify her.

"I have a meeting with Mr. Cobblepot," she said, her voice muffled. Vinny the Valet peered into her visor and the way his eyes widened told her that he recognized who she was.

"Miss...Uh, Miss Witch!" he exclaimed before he cleared his throat and adjusted his bowtie. "Pardon me, I wasn't expecting you at the front door. Please, pull your motorcycle around to the staff entrance. I'll meet you there." He gestured to an alleyway off to the right. Salem glanced at a crowd of people stumbling past and quickly snapped the visor back over her eyes. She nodded and did as she was told. She loitered by a big steel door until Vinny opened it, revealing the kitchen on the other side. Salem glanced from the valet to her motorcycle.

"Your vehicle will be safe here," he said. "No one's stupid enough to steal from the Penguin's turf." She stepped inside and pulled her helmet off, wondering how the staff would react to a known asylum escapee just waltzing into their workplace. If any of them were surprised they didn't show it; they merely glanced at her and went back to preparing the food. Tucking the helmet under her arm, Salem followed Vinny out of the kitchen and to a back staircase. It was a good ten degrees cooler out here and she felt herself shiver. Out in the Lounge's main area she could hear laughter and the strange, almost prehistoric cries of the live penguins that Cobblepot kept in a recessed pool. Vinny took her up the stairs and through a series of doors, then down another set of stairs that seemed to go down for forever. They went through another door, and came into a huge, warehouse-like room. Firearms of every stripe hung along both walls, while folding tables had ammunition and grenades and body armor laid out like some sort of militaristic flea market. And standing in the middle of it all was the Penguin himself. Rotund as he was, he was dressed in a finely-tailored tuxedo, and a top hat perched jauntily on his head. The beer bottle bottom that was embedded in his flesh enlarged that eye in a disturbing sort of way, but Salem did her best not to stare as she approached him. She took the hand he held out to her and gave it a firm handshake.

"'Ello love," Penguin croaked. "Lovely to see you again." There was something almost skeevy about the way that he said that, but Salem chose to ignore it.

"The pleasure's mine," she replied. "I see business is good upstairs."

"And it's good downstairs too," he said with a chuckle. "Everybody comes to me for guns, you know. I'm the best in the business, after all! And trust me, Eddie wants his lady outfitted with the best." Salem felt a slight blush rise to her cheeks, and she hoped that it wasn't noticeable. If Oswald saw it, he made no indication as he made a sweeping gesture at the weaponry. "Tell me love, what do you like?"

Salem drifted over to the weaponry and began to study them intently, Cobblepot waddling in her shadow like the overgrown penguin he was. Edward wasn't kidding when he said that if it exists the Penguin probably had it in his arsenal. There was everything from tiny .22 pistols to military-grade .50 caliber sniper rifles. She paused at a rocket launcher and ran her finger along its cold metal body, wondering what it was like to fire one.

"That'll do a nice bit of destruction," Oswald remarked. He barely came up to her shoulder.

"Not really my style," she said, moving away. She stopped at a sawed-off shotgun and pulled it down, feeling its familiar weight in her hands. She rested the butt of the gun up against her shoulder and practiced taking aim. The Penguin chuckled.

"I pegged you as a shotgun type from the moment I saw you," he remarked. Salem smirked.

"You can take the girl out of the country but you can't really take the country out of the girl," she said. She shouldered the gun and glanced down at him. "What do you have by means of pistols? And I mean real pistols, not some worthless .22 peashooter." Cobblepot arched an eyebrow and moved over to one of the tables. He picked up a rather large handgun and held it out to her. She took it, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She held it out and sighted down the barrel.

"Desert Eagle," he said. "Semi-automatic, fires .357 caliber bullets.

"Do you have two of them?" Salem asked. When Penguin scowled at her she rolled her eyes. "I know dual-wielding handguns is a myth. I just like to have a spare."

"Expecting to need a lot of firepower are we?"

"I've had too many guns pointed in my face lately," she replied. "Might as well have a few of my own to point back."

"Here, set those down over there," Penguin said, gesturing at a half-empty table. "We'll get you your ammo in a moment. But first, I have something else to give you." He waddled over to a far table and picked up a nondescript black box and motioned for her to come closer. "Eddie had this made custom," he continued, snapping the lid open. He smirked when Salem's eyes lit up at the sight of the bowie knife nestled on a bed of velvet. "Pretty, innit? Go on, pick it up. Feel how light it is." She did as she was told and turned it over and over in her hands, the dim warehouse lighting dancing off of the blade.

"The hilt is polished ebony wood from Brazil inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The blade is Damascus steel. It'll be sharper for longer and won't ever break." Salem was transfixed by how the light danced off the wave pattern of the steel and glinted on the mother-of-pearl inlay.

"It's almost too pretty to use," she said. That made Cobblepot laugh.

"I'm sure you'll find a use for it," he said. "Pretty as it is, it'll still cut a bastard's finger off."

"Thank you, Oswald," Salem said.

"Don't thank me," he chuckled. "Thank your rich boyfriend. Now, if you're ready luv, I'll call the car to take you to the Tailor. We have to get you a holster to go with that knife of yours." Salem carefully ran her finger along the edge of the blade, smirking as she felt it made a shallow cut into her callous.

"I hate to impose, Oswald, but I have a request," she said, looking back up at him. Penguin gave her an inquisitive look. "My recent encounter with Amanda Waller was rather elucidating," she continued. "I have no idea how to fight." She tossed the knife up in the air and felt the weight of it as she caught it telekinetically; it hovered in the air. "My powers, while useful, have their limits. I need to learn how to take a punch." She flicked her wrist and the knife flew across the room and buried itself in the far wall, its mother-of-pearl hilt quivering. "Know where I can take lessons?" Cobblepot chuckled.

"I'd offer up one of me own boys, but they're not trained to wrestle," he replied. "They're trained to kill." He paused for a moment. "But, I do know Black Mask runs an operation down near the docks. Some kind of fight club. Some of his boys are top-notch brawlers, so if you're looking for a trainer who won't ask questions, he's probably your man. Word of advice though, luv: Black Mask ain't no friend of Eddie's. I wouldn't go in there asking for a favor if I was you." Salem threw Penguin a dirty look before she caught the knife as it came whirring back across the room.

"What makes you think I need to rest on Edward's good graces to get anything done around here?" she snarled. "I might not have money, but I still have chips to bargain with." Cobblepot chuckled.

"I see why Eddie likes you," he remarked dryly. "He always liked 'em fierce." Salem's glare intensified. "Shall I call the car for you then?" She inclined her head. "Let's get you a bag then."

*

It was hard to see exactly where they were going through the tinted walls of the sleek, black car that Penguin provided, and it was only when they pulled to a stop and the driver opened her door that she saw they were somewhere in Burnley. He gestured at the nearest door and said that he would be waiting outside to take her back to the Iceberg Lounge when she was finished. Salem thanked him and approached what looked like an abandoned storefront; its red door was covered in weather-blasted posters advertising long-forgotten concerts and and the errant lost dog ad. The barred windows were empty and dark, save for a few thick cobwebs in the corners and a rather large dead cockroach lying belly-up. She glanced behind her to ask the driver if she was supposed to knock, but he had already gotten back inside the car. Clearing her throat, she stepped forward and rapped a knuckle on the poster-covered door. There was a whirring sound, and she glanced up to see a tiny black security camera swivel to look at her.

"Well that's not going to work," she muttered under her breath. Moments later she heard the deadbolt give way and the door opened to reveal a slender, well-dressed man. The Tailor certainly lived up to his name. He was a handsome man, with elegant features and his black hair slicked back. Salem guessed he was Japanese. He wore a well-tailored vest and button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a sleek pair of slacks. A tailor's measuring tape was draped around his neck. He smiled at her and gestured for her to come inside.

"Mr. Nigma told me that I would know it was you when the camera didn't work," he said, nodding up at the camera before shutting the door and locking it again. He adjusted his vest and held out a hand to her. "It's a pleasure to meet you in person. Shall I call you the Salem Witch? Or do you prefer another name?"

"Call me Salem," she said, looking around her at the racks of suits and other costumes neatly arranged along a far wall. There were two manikins, one male and the other female; she saw a half-finished nurse's costume on the female form. The Tailor smiled when she looked at it.

"Miss Quinn's newest request," he explained. "It's not every day that I get to design a new outfit, especially for the ladies of the Gotham underworld. And one does get bored tailoring the same things over and over again." He drifted passed to where a black curtain hung. "Which leads me to what I made up for you." The Tailor pulled the curtain back, revealing a cloth manikin and her new outfit. Salem walked around the manikin, examining the clothes from every angle. The trench coat was a rich blood red with a fitted bodice and sleeves. The bottom half of the coat flared out down to her ankles and would billow, dramatic and cape-like, behind her as she walked. She reached out and touched the soft and supple fabric.

"It's breathable, lightweight, and waterproof," the Tailor said. "Inside of the breast there are four hidden pockets that are still easily accessible." He walked around back and pulled a short hood over the head of the manikin. "The hood is enough to help obscure your face, but not so voluminous as to impede your peripheral vision." He slid the coat off of the body form, revealing what was beneath. The black, form-fitting top looked like a halter-style corset at first glance, but upon closer inspection she saw that the "halter" straps also cleverly doubled as a pair of shoulder holsters for handguns. There were leggings, black, shiny, and leather-like. A sheath, no doubt for her pearl-handled knife, was strapped around the right thigh. A pair of boots that came just over the knee completed the look. The Tailor rapped his knuckles against the top, and Salem heard the solid thunk of Kevlar.

"The top is bulletproof, but not so bulky as the GCPD standard issue. Meanwhile, the leggings have the look of leather but are far more supple and more breathable than spandex," the Tailor continued. "You will be able to move quickly if you need to." He turned and walked over to a table and brought her a pair of goggles. They were a sleeker version of what a welder might wear, black with pale red lenses.

"These will help protect your eyes from flying debris," he explained. "They're modeled off ones I made for Catwoman, with some obvious modifications for your unique assets. The glass is shatterproof, and while tinged red, will not obstruct your vision. May I?" He approached with the goggles and Salem let him slip them over her head and down over her eyes. He gently pressed a small switch next to her left eye that she hadn't noticed at first. Immediately, a targeting sight appeared and locked onto the Tailor.

"Mr. Nigma outfitted these with a nanotech targeting system to help compensate for your partial blindness," he continued. "You'll notice readouts to the right of the sight. They will guage your distance from your target, your target's weight, and, if they are moving, their current speed." Salem switched off the targeting system and pushed the goggles back onto her forehead, marveling at everything. The Tailor stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Is everything to your specifications, Miss Ellis?" he asked.

"M-My specifications?" she returned, a little distracted. "Yes. Yes! Everything is wonderful!" The Tailor smiled.

"Mr. Nigma was adamant that your outfit be practical, yet make a statement," he said. "And he insisted that red was your color."

 _The color of the Devil_ , she thought, and she chuckled as she fingered the coat's fabric once more.

"Do you have any other questions?" the Tailor said.

"Yeah," she replied. "When do I get to try it on?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild double post appeared :D


	20. Sorry, Billy

Salem sat on her mattress with a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she turned her hand in all directions, scrutinizing every detail. There was the familiar scar on her middle knuckle, a tiny reminder of the time she sliced it open on the sharp edge of a freshly-opened can. Her pale skin made her veins visible, like pale blue subway lines running beneath her flesh. There was nothing different about it; her hand still looked and felt like it always had. The image of the Arkham guard screaming and falling unconscious at her feet still played over and over in her mind.

_The man who thinks he controls fear opened the door_.

Was the voice in the asylum right? Had Scarecrow's toxin somehow caused her powers to change? The doctors at Arkham told her that she had received an alarmingly concentrated dose and were surprised when she came out of the toxin's effects with no apparent damage to her psyche. Well, at least no new damage, anyway. It was in the subsequent weeks that the strange things began happening in the basement, however, and Salem had a hard time believing that the two weren't connected somehow. Maybe Crane's nightmare juice had left lasting effects after all. But if that was the case, wouldn't it mean that she would still have those dreams and hear that voice? Ever since she'd left the asylum her nightmares returned to their normal post-traumatic fare, and not once had she been awoken by a voice asking if she could hear it. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and tapped the ash that was threatening to tumble into her lap in the ashtray on her bedside table.

A knock at the door jolted her out her reverie and she muttered for the person to come in. Jerry opened the door and approached her with a battered, nondescript dufflebag in hand. He looked both uncomfortable and unhappy as he plopped the bag on her mattress.

"James would kill me if he knew I was letting you do this," he remarked. Salem tamped out the cigarette before swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress and standing up. "You know Black Mask isn't going to like you just waltzing into his joint."

"That's why I'm taking your weekly cash drop," she explained for what felt like the twentieth time since she approached Jerry with this plan. "He can't be too mad if I'm bringing him his drug money." She walked over to the closet and pulled out her costume, once again admiring the red trench coat.

"Sionis may wear a mask, but he ain't no loony," Jerry continued. "The man'll gut you like a pig if he thinks you're being disrespectful." Salem flipped her red hair over her shoulder.

"I've dealt with the people who give Black Mask nightmares," she said, laying the outfit across the bed. "And if he wants to gut me, I welcome him to try." Jerry rolled his eyes.

"Whatever," he muttered, then turned to go.

"Wait," Salem called after him. She walked around the bed until she was within arm's reach. "Stand still." Jerry's look of discomfort increased sevenfold as she reached out and pressed her fingertips against the side of his head. Nothing happened. Jerry scowled and batted her hand away.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. Salem looked at her hand, then slowly curled her fingers into her palm.

"Never mind," she muttered. "Get out, I need to change."

*

Black Mask operated out of a derelict strip club down near the docks. Once one of the terrors of Gotham City, he had had long been supplanted by the likes of Joker and the rest of the Gotham rogues. Roman Sionis was a gangster, wholly unremarkable except for his trademark mask and a cruel streak that made even Salem uncomfortable. Cruelty was a necessity in Black Mask's world; when one didn't have special powers at their disposal, it was the only way to keep the men in line.

Salem pounded a fist on the door, the dufflebag slung over one shoulder. A salty breeze ruffled the hem of her trench coat and she adjusted her goggles so they sat higher up on her forehead. A moment passed before a small panel slid open and she saw two pale gray eyes peer out at her.

"The fuck are you?" a voice asked.

"Like you don't know," she sneered in return. She held up the bag for him to see. "I got a delivery for Black Mask." Judging from the way the man narrowed his eyes, it was clear he wasn't convinced.

"I thought you was some hot shit terrorist blowin' up churches," he said. "Why you suddenly makin' drop-offs?"

"Would you let me in if I had just shown up?" she countered. "I need to talk to your boss." There was a pause before she heard the lock click and the door swung open, revealing a large, muscled man in a wifebeater and a pair of gray sweatpants. His thick arms were covered in tattoos, and his knuckles were red with new scabs. He had one black eye and split lip. Salem, interpreting this as an invitation to come inside took a step forward, but the man held out a hand, stopping her. It felt like walking into a wall.

"What does a metahuman want with Black Mask?" he asked. "You freaks all think you're too good for him just 'cuz you got fancy powers." Salem glanced down at his hand resting against her, noticing that if he grabbed her he would envelop her entire shoulder in his grasp.

"Do you know what my 'fancy power' is?" she asked. The man suddenly rocketed backwards and slammed against the wall, hard enough to knock the wind from him but not hard enough to kill. The last thing she wanted to do was incite a riot, but she wasn't about to take any shit from a lowlife like this. The man's eyes grew wide as he coughed and gasped for breath. She slung the bag back over her shoulder and walked in. "Which way to Black Mask?" she asked. The man pointed down the hall, still unable to speak.

There apparently wasn't any electricity running to the building, because the hall was lit only by construction lights hooked up to a generator. Their light was bright but localized, and it cast the garish red and black walls in unflattering shadows. A ripped poster advertising the "Seductive Shelly Cherie" hung crooked on one wall, while another showed a bare-chested woman who was bending over for a man to shove a $100 bill in her thong. Soon, Salem heard the distinctive, wet sound of a fist impacting flesh over and over and over, the sound occasionally muffled by a chorus of cheers. As she drew closer she could hear grunts and the sound of feet shuffling across the floor. The hall opened on a balcony flanked by two grand staircases that led down towards a large, circular stage. It had been retrofitted as some sort of arena, with cables reminiscent of wrestling stages running around its perimeter. Men crowded around this stage and watched as two boxers circled one another, fists held up to block any blows to the face. Salem fished her cigarettes and a lighter out of her pocket and lit one as one of the boxers lurched forward and dealt his opponent a flurry of blows. All of them were blocked. The one who was blocking suddenly kicked the other man's knee, breaking it as it bent backwards. He went down with a scream, and the other boxer was on him, pounding his face with balled fists. Salem grimaced as she heard bones crunch even from where she was.

"Enough!" barked a voice. "That's enough, Clarence. Don't kill 'em. Not today at least." The man doing the punching crawled off his opponent, and she could see the other man's face was swollen and bloody beyond recognition. That's when she saw Black Mask himself climb into the ring, a cigar clutched in his teeth. He stood over the man and chided him.

"You know what they say, Tommy. Best offense is a good defense," he said. "Get this gutter trash outta my sight." Two other men sporting bruises similar to the man at the door scurried forward to do as they were told. They picked up the man as carefully as they could and carried him out. Salem blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth as she slid the dufflebag off her shoulder. She pulled her cigarette out of her lips with her other hand as she tossed the dufflebag as hard as she could. It didn't go very far, but it still landed with a heavy _thwump_ on the floor below. All eyes turned to her as Black Mask whirled around and glared up at the balcony.

"Cash courtesy of the Bunker," she said, nodding down at it. She took another drag from her cigarette. Even from her elevated position she could feel Black Mask's glare.

"Well I'll be damned," he said. His voice was gravelly from years of cigars. "I thought you were supposed to be a big deal, sister. Since when do you make cash drops?" Salem took a long drag of her cigarette and blew out a thin cloud of smoke. It lingered in the heavy air, writhing in slow spirals.

"When I'd like to make a placating gesture," she replied. Sionis chuckled at that.

"Come on down, sister," he said, gesturing at the stairs. "You wanna talk, let's talk. No sense in shouting at each other." Salem snuffed out her cigarette on the banister before tromping down the stairs. For the first time since she began this mad ride, she felt confident walking into a meeting with a crimelord. There was something about her costume that made her feel powerful. Like she was finally one of them.

She stepped into the ring of Black Mask's men and squared her shoulders. She could feel two dozen eyes sizing her up, perhaps even questioning why she was here. Sionis remained up in the ring, but he came to lean against the flexible railing. His titular mask was skeletal in appearance and made Sionis's face look as if the skin had been burned away, leaving only a blackened and charred skull in its place. It contrasted sharply with his crisp white suit. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and stared at her with cruel, dark eyes.

"You're that broad they call the Witch," he remarked. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking to strike a deal," Salem replied. "I need to learn how to fight. I hear your guys are the best in the city." Black Mask took a drag of his cigar and exhaled the thick, white smoke.

"Learn how to fight, eh?" he said. "Well, you ain't wrong, my guys are the best in Gotham. So I get one of my guys to teach you how to throw a punch. Question is, what are you willing to give me in return? You ain't exactly flush with cash. And sorry toots, but you're too ugly to fuck." Salem's fingers twitched at the insult, but she resisted the urge to splatter Black Mask against the far wall.

"You're right," she said, "I don't have any money. But I could get you some. Let's say...a whole armored car's worth." Sionis's laughter was blacker than his mask.

"You come in here asking me to get you punchin' lessons and then you turn around and say that you can take on an armored car?" he said. "I'm afraid I don't follow." Salem glanced at the goons surrounding her.

"Who do you dislike the most?" she asked. She imagined Black Mask scowling, but it was difficult to tell what his expression was behind the mask.

"What's that?"

"Who do you dislike the most in this room?" Salem repeated. "There has to be somebody. Maybe a guy who shorted you? Let you down?" There were discontented murmurs from the crowd. A few of them shifted nervously. Black Mask's dark eyes darted around the room.

"Billy," he barked. The men standing near the marked man almost jumped backwards in their haste to separate themselves from him. The man in question, Billy, seemed to shrink in on himself in an attempt to appear smaller. Black Mask jabbed his cigar at him. "Billy's top on my shit list. Jackass stiffed me out of five grand last week because he made a stupid mistake."

"I-I thought them guards was going to be somewhere else!" Billy stammered. Salem turned to face him.

"Sorry, Billy," she said before she held up her hand. Billy, all two-hundred some pounds of him, slammed into the wall so hard that it cracked the plaster. She yanked her hand back, and the man's body flew clear across the room; men dove out of the way as he went head-first into the wall, his skull cracking in a spray of blood. Salem mentally dragged the man's body across the floor into the middle of the room, leaving a wet, red trail in its wake. She then put one boot up on the corpse's dislocated shoulder and laid one spindly arm across her knee. There were cries of surprise, a few men whistled. Even Black Mask looked shocked as he stared at the corpse with his mouth agape. He climbed out of the ring and approached, careful to keep his eyes on her at all times. When he was close enough, he prodded the lifeless body with his foot.

"Damn, sister," he said, looking back up at her. Salem smirked and tapped at the side of her head with a long finger.

"Give me half a dozen of your best men," she said, "and I'll turn an armored car into a piggy bank -we'll tip it over and see what falls out. Do we have a deal?" She extended a hand towards him. Though it was brief, Salem saw him flinch. Still, Sionis grabbed her hand in his and shook her hand vigorously.

"Hell yeah we do," he said. Salem's smirk morphed into a full-fledged grin; Jerry's information had proved useful after all.

_Sionis ain't been hittin' the banks like he used to, not since Harvey Dent got half his face melted off and went loco. Banks is his territory now._

Now only one question remained: was she strong enough to do what she'd promised? As Salem glanced around the room at the men surrounding her, she sincerely hoped she was.


	21. Reunion

Salem reached into one of the interior pockets of her trench coat as she felt her cellphone vibrate. Outside of the nondescript car she was driving, traffic was bumper-to-bumper and impatient drivers late for appointments and meetings slammed on their horns. A few even rolled down their windows and shouted angrily, as if that would somehow make the traffic move. Red lights flashed beside signs that read DRAWBRIDGE SIGNAL, and anyone could see that Founder's Bridge was raised, blocking cars from entering and exiting Gotham City. But the bridge had been raised for fifteen minutes now, and there were no barges in sight; a convenient malfunction had been arranged.

"Are you ready?" Salem asked as she pressed the phone to her ear. She could hear the grumbling of idling motorcycles coming from the other end of the line.

"We're ready," Frankie's voice replied. Salem adjusted the rear view mirror so she could see behind her better.

"Then you know what to do," she said, then hung up. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in an effort to expel her nervous energy. It had taken her a week to set this up, and much like her previous plans, all it would take was one wrong move to bring things crashing down on top of them. Even worse, she had never attempted something this big before. Throwing humans across a room was one thing; tipping a multi-ton armored car was another.

Gotham Central Bank had recently opened branches in the surrounding suburbs and today was the day an armored truck would be bringing deposits to the main branch in the city.

"Four guys on motorcycles will take out the escort," Salem muttered to herself as she adjusted the rear view mirror for a second time. "Four police cruisers, one at each corner of the armored car. The motorcyclists pull up alongside and put adhesive grenades on each. Then boom, no more cops." Without the escort, the armored car would then slam on the gas in an effort to try and get away. The motorcycles would then herd it down the highway towards the bridge like sheepdogs harrying the flock.

A Gotham City 9 traffic helicopter chugged overhead, filming the backup below. Salem turned up the volume on her car radio and heard Jack Ryder telling listeners to avoid the Founder's Bridge beltway due to heavy traffic and use alternative routes if possible. She watched the clock, her heart rate beginning to quicken. A bead of sweat appeared at her temple.

Once the armored car had cleared the city limits, the motorcycles would fall back. The armored car's driver, confused, would probably let off the gas ever so slightly...but just enough for the eighteen wheeler behind it to accelerate and slam into its bumper, propelling it forward. An armored car was too big and heavy to try and maneuver away; doing so would just cause it to flip. The trucker would keep going forward at a steady 65 mph, pushing the other vehicle along. When they were in sight of the bridge-

_WOOOOONK_ , _WOOOOOOOONK_.

The sound of the truck horn, even in the distance nearly made Salem leap out of her skin. She glanced in the rear view mirror and could see the car and the truck barreling down the highway. Pulling her goggles down over her eyes, Salem opened her door and stepped out into the road; nearby drivers scowled in confusion as she began to walk back through the maze of cars. The wind tore at her hair and the long hem of her trench coat as she stopped at the back of the last car in line. The nanotech data in her goggles read the speed and weight of the oncoming vehicles, and the number indicating its distance from her was rapidly shrinking. She saw the semi slow down, releasing the armored car from its propulsion. Salem drew in a shuddering breath, the readout in the corner of her goggles telling her the velocity of the armored car as it approached. The driver was trying to stop; even from here she could hear the breaks screeching. Time seemed to slow down as she focused on the armored car approaching.

She let out her breath, and with it her telekinetic powers surged through her. She held up both hands and felt the force of the truck slam against her mental barrier. Every muscle and tendon in her body was tensed and quivering. Salem stumbled backwards, but grit her teeth and pushed back with everything that she had. She focused in on the front right wheel, straining in an effort to stop it from turning. She could feel the familiar pressure building up in her head, followed by the warm stickiness of blood dripping from her nose. Ordinarily she would've given up by now, but there was no giving up this time. A savage cry erupted from her mouth and she felt a renewed surge of psychic power. The front wheel stopped turning as if a clamp had slammed shut over it and the armored car swung wildly to the left as the steering wheel was jerked out of the driver's hands. Gravity and inertia did the rest of the work. The truck flipped once, twice, three times, its heavy body thudding into the concrete. Salem flung herself off to the side as the truck landed on its roof and slid towards her still at an accelerated rate; it only stopped moving when it plowed into the back of the nearest car.

Salem laid there for a moment face-down on the sun-warmed pavement, her mind swimming. Every nerve felt like it was screaming and blood was pouring out of her nose, but she'd done it. She heard the four motorcycles pull up in a roar of noise, and then they were firing automatic weapons into the air. Terrified drivers who had gotten out of their cars to see what was going on suddenly screamed and ran. She slowly picked herself up off the road and she looked over her shoulder at the wreckage behind her. The armored car was upside down, its wheels still spinning. Three of the four motorcyclists were turning in wild circles, still firing their guns in an effort to shoo as many people away as possible. Frankie had stopped behind the armored car, and he sat there staring at Salem in open wonderment. She slowly rose to her feet, expecting a wave of dizziness to wash over her as soon as she was up. But it didn't come. She scowled and looked down at her hands; by all accounts she should be dizzy, perhaps even dead. She wiped at the blood coming from her nose, the realization of what she'd just done slowly washing over her.

Frankie shuddered as the Salem Witch flung back her head and laughed as she walked towards the upended armored car. She raised her right hand and her fingers curled as if she were clutching a doorknob. The metal groaned, and she braced herself against an unseen force. Then, with an ear-piercing shriek, the door was ripped off its hinges. The Salem Witch stumbled forward onto her knees, her breathing labored. She waved Frankie off as he stepped forward to help her.

"I'm fine," she said sharply as she crouched there. Blood dripped from her nose. She had the look of a man who'd gone eleven rounds but was getting back up for the twelfth. She stood again and wobbled there for a moment before shaking her head and forcing her feet to move. She walked up to the now open door of the armored car and peered in; bags of money were flung about in total disarray, with some half-opened and their green contents spilling out onto the ceiling. The Salem Witch looked back at him with a nicotine-stained smile, her eerie two-toned eyes glimmering with a light Frankie wasn't sure he liked. Was it excitement or madness or something in between?

"Get the money," she ordered. "Then let's get out of here."

*

"In a surprising turn of events, the Salem Witch robbed an armored car destined for Gotham Central Bank, making off with nearly half a million dollars" Jack Ryder said, shuffling his papers together as he read from a teleprompter. "The Witch has been inactive in the weeks following her escape from Arkham Asylum, and police are currently investigating in an attempt to find her whereabouts. Until then, citizens are asked to-"

Salem switched off the TV and took a sip of her bourbon. Despite a headache and a persistent ringing in her ears, she felt surprisingly fine. She'd felt drained on the ride back, but one greasy burger from the diner around the corner and she felt fine again. Now she sat in the Bunker, sipping bourbon as Jerry pretended to scrub at a spot on the bar. She held up her left hand and studied it once more, her mind awash with this newest development.

"I thought you hated those scars of yours," Jerry remarked, breaking the silence. "Do you really gotta torture yourself by staring at them?" Salem turned so the scars were facing her; she could see the brand of the cross leering at her from beneath the mess of pale, jagged slashes. Her pinky and ring fingers, as always, refused to straighten completely. Ordinarily the sight of them was enough to turn her stomach, but tonight even they couldn't dampen her mood.

"Something's happening to me, Jerry," she said, swirling her bourbon around in her glass. "Ever since Crane dosed me with his toxin, I've felt...different."

"I knew a guy who got that scary juice in his face," he returned, not looking up from his work. "Guy's in Arkham now wrapped up in a straitjacket in a padded cell. Bet he feels real different right about now."

"I can do things I couldn't before," she continued, reaching out her left hand towards the liquor bottles neatly arranged along the back wall. The bottle of expensive bourbon gently lifted off and floated over to her. Jerry rolled his eyes as she refilled her glass.

"You know, most people ask the bartender for a refill," he said, though his tone wasn't entirely unfriendly. Salem rolled her eyes and mentally lifted another glass up onto the bar.

"Stop scrubbing like this shithole's going to be anything but and come have a drink with me," she said, pouring him a glass.

"Bartenders ain't legally allowed to drink on the job in Gotham," Jerry retorted. "You tryin' to get my license revoked?" He still flipped his dirty bar rag over his shoulder and came over to her.

"Bartenders aren't supposed to be running drugs for Black Mask, either," Salem replied, holding up her drink. "To being criminal bastards?" Jerry clinked his glass against hers.

"To bein' criminal bastards."

As both of them were tipping back their bourbon, the little bell Jerry hung on the front door jingled as it opened. Salem slammed the glass down so hard it broke as she spun on her bar stool and held out her hands to catch the shotgun that came flying across the room towards her. She pumped it and pointed it at the door, where Frankie and a crowd of battered and bruised men she recognized from Black Mask's lair stood. Frankie's hands shot into the air.

"Whoa boss, simmer down, it's just us," he said. The men all shuffled into the room. Salem counted at least fifteen. She scowled and lowered the barrel of her gun.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" Jerry asked, laying down the pistol he'd snatched from under the bar. "I already gave Sionis his cash for this month."

"We ain't here for money," Frankie replied, "we're here for her." Salem's scowl turned into a sneer as she raised the shotgun once more. Frankie raised his hands even higher.

"Hey, hey, you're alright!" he exclaimed. "I just wanna talk, yeah? Look, me and the guys here were pretty impressed by what you did with that car. That's power money can't buy, which means its _real_." The shotgun's barrel slowly lowered again and Frankie let his hands fall down at his sides. He let out a slow breath and shook his head.

"For somebody who's got crazy mind powers you sure are quick to use that," he said, nodding at the gun. "What we're trying to say is we wanna run with you now. Broad like you don't have to be scared of Two-Face or Joker or any of the rest, ya know? We could be somethin' in this city again." Salem and Jerry exchanged glances.

"You do know what I _do_ , right?" she asked. "I'm not a bank robber, I'm a terrorist. A literal terrorist. If you want a larceny gig, I suggest you go apply to Mr. Dent." Frankie shook his head.

"Me and the guys are looking for a career change," he said. "We're tired of brawlin' and fightin' for scraps. If it means we gotta blow up a few churches to get back on top, then that's what we'll do."

"How do we know you're loyal to her and not Black Mask?" Jerry interjected, laying his thick, gnarled hands on the bar. His bushy graying brows knitted into a single, fuzzy line. Frankie folded his thick arms across his chest.

"How do we know you're loyal?" he retorted. He turned his attention back to Salem. "Look, we're loyal. Once we decide we're goin' with you, we're in it for the long haul."

"Riddle me this! What gets broken without being held?"

The sound of that familiar voice cutting into the conversation was enough to make Salem nearly jolt off of her stool. Even the crowd of men seemed startled as they whirled about and saw Edward Nigma standing in the doorway, leaning on his golden question mark cane and smiling smugly. Salem was confused and happy and startled all at once; behind her, Jerry sighed and rubbed at the corners of his eyes.

"Ah, Jesus fuck," he muttered. The Riddler, meanwhile, swung his cane to dramatically point at Frankie.

"Words may be powerful, my friend, but at the end of the day actions do speak far louder," he said. "If you're considering taking up this Neanderthal's offer, Salem dear, I suggest you require something more than empty promises. Perhaps a labor fit for Hercules? Call it an...initiation, if you will." Salem laid her shotgun down on the bar and leaned back with her arms folded across her chest.

"What do you have in mind, Mr. Nigma?" she asked. "Trials of Herculanean proportions are more your specialty, wouldn't you say?" Jerry was pouring himself another drink.

"...A quiet evening," he grumbled. "Is just one without this loony shit too much to ask?" Edward tapped his chin with the end of his cane as he thought.

"Perhaps retrieving the money you so deftly stole would be enough to prove their allegiance," he said. "After all, I would say it's yours by right." Frankie and the others went a little pale.

"Stealin' from Black Mask is a death wish!" he exclaimed. Edward ran a finger along the curved top of his cane as he studied his reflection in its metallic gold surface. Only now did Salem notice that his one hand was wrapped in thick white bandages.

"I often see the threat of death less as a deterrent and more as life's great motivator to succeed," he said. He looked at Frankie over the top of his glasses and smiled. "You succeed, you live. You fail, you die. I trust those rules are simple enough for even your primitive brain to follow."

"If the boys prefer more difficult rules, Mr. Nigma, I'm sure you could oblige?" Salem asked. Truly, she was enjoying watching over a dozen men squirm.

"No!" Frankie's voice cracked as he nearly shouted the word. "We'll get the money. We'll bring it back tomorrow night. Promise!" Salem picked up Jerry's bourbon and took a long sip as she stared Frankie down.

"Out. All of you," she ordered. No one moved. The front door suddenly swung open so hard it slammed against the outside wall. "OUT. _NOW_." Salem barked. The crowd of men all jumped and scurried to do as they were told, leaving only her, Edward, and Jerry in the room. The door slammed shut again as she spun around to glare at Jerry. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Oh, you're throwin' me out of my own bar now?" he demanded. He nodded over at Edward, who had resumed leaning on his cane, his green bowler hat sitting at a jaunty angle on his head. "What about him? You throwin' him out too?"

"No," she said, refilling the glass. She squinted as the alcohol currently coursing through her started to take effect, making her feel unsteady even as she sat. "As a matter of fact, would you be a dear and get him a glass on your way out?" Jerry almost looked like he was about to argue, but he instead threw a glare at Edward before putting another glass on the bar and walking out, muttering to himself.

"Lock the door before you...whatever you're going to do," he called before closing the door behind him. The bell was still jingling as Edward slid onto the stool next to her. He tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear as she swiveled to face him. She reached out and lightly touched his bandaged hand.

"Rough night?" she asked. Edward glanced down at it and scowled.

"Ones involving Batman always are," he replied. "It seems like you managed to avoid the fiasco at Arkham. Consider yourself lucky."

"What happened?" she asked.

"Amanda Waller was stupid enough to think she could outsmart me," Edward said. He snorted. "Foolish woman tried to recruit me for her Suicide Squad. She thought that a simple nanobomb in my spine would be enough to manipulate me for her cause. Hah! The nerve!"

"She did _what_?" Salem exclaimed. He only waved a dismissive hand at her.

"It's her way of controlling her puppets from afar. Though she didn't account for my vastly superior intellect; I ascertained the exact voltage necessary to diffuse it long before she could press the button. And then what does she do? She sends her little squad after me in Arkham, but instead of killing me they only succeeded in letting Joker and half the patients loose, blowing up the electroshock therapy room, and causing thousands of dollars in damages. Bunch of bumbling idiots...They have no finesse." Salem mentally lifted a bottle of gin off of the wall and drifted it over into her outstretched hand. She poured some into the glass before reaching over and grabbing the soda gun and topping it off with tonic water. She fished a lime wedge out of a nearby bin and slid the drink towards him.

"Waller visited me in the asylum," Salem remarked, running a finger around the edge of her glass. "She knew. About...this, I mean." She gestured between the two of them. Edward caught her hand and brought it to his lips. He flashed that roguish grin of his.

"I wouldn't say it's exactly a secret," he said, his thumb tracing light patterns along her skin. "Harley discerned the nature of our relationship almost immediately. Air-headed as she is, Miss Quinzel can be rather perceptive at times."

"Doesn't that worry you?" she asked. "Someone could use it against us-" He silenced her with a kiss.

"As much as I love it when you use that lovely brain of yours, darling," he said as he pulled away, "perhaps now is not the time." Salem reached out her other hand and slid it up his thigh.

"I can think of a few other ways to preoccupy ourselves," she said with a smirk.

*

Salem lay with her head on Edward's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the months following her incarceration she'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to have someone next to her. The warmth, the feeling of skin touching skin -she'd missed it. She shifted her weight and pulled herself even closer as she draped a long leg over him.

"What is easy to get into but hard to get out of?" Edward asked, propping himself up on his elbow so he could see her. Salem thought about it for a moment before lazily shrugging.

"I don't know," she said. Edward kissed the tip of her nose.

"Trouble," he replied, kissing her lips this time. "Which is exactly what you've become." His lips trailed down her neck to her collar bones and the soft skin between her breasts as his hand wandered down to teasingly caress her inner thighs. Salem gave a tiny gasp as she wound her fingers through his hair-

_A scene flashed behind her eyes, though she new immediately she saw it from the eyes of another. An angry, disheveled man was storming towards her with a piece of paper clutched tightly in his meaty fists. He grabbed Salem by the collar of her shirt and hauled her towards him. His breath reeked of cheap rye whiskey._

_"What the hell is this?" the man snarled, shoving the piece of paper in her face._

_"I-I-It's my test!" she replied, though in the voice of a young boy. "I-I-I thought you wanted to see it! The teacher said I got the highest-" Stars exploded in her vision as the man slapped her so hard she hit the floor._

_"You didn't get the highest anything!" he roared as he wobbled about on unsteady feet. "You wanna know why? Because you cheated! I know you did! There's no way you're that smart!" He hauled her back up onto her feet and hit her again._

_"You think you're smarter than me, huh? Well, I'll show you!"_

Salem and Edward simultaneously shoved each other away and stared at each other in wide-eyed silence. Instinctively she pulled the sheets up against her chest as she pressed her back into the headboard.

"I..." she began, but her words failed her. How could she explain what had just happened? _Sorry dear, just catching glimpses of your worst memories, don't mind me_.

"What-?" Edward ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "What did you just do to me?" Salem opened her mouth then closed it again as she flung the sheets off of her and sat on the edge of the bed. She grabbed her cigarettes and struggled to light it with her shaking hands. When it finally struck and the end burst into flames, she tossed the lighter back onto the nightstand with a heavy, metallic _thunk_.

"I...Things have been...strange," she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. She looked down at her quivering hands. "Ever since Jonathan injected me with his toxin unusual things have been happening." Edward's look of bewilderment quickly melted into one of interest.

"Strange? How so?" he asked, sitting up in bed.

"It started in the asylum," she said, pulling another drag, hoping it was enough to calm her. "I was having strange dreams, even hearing a voice. At first I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, but the longer I was down there, it became more frequent. When I finally responded to it, it talked back to me." She could feel is skepticism and it made her angry. "Don't look at me like that," she said fiercely. "I've never heard voices in my life and I haven't heard any since."

"Your sudden onslaught of auditory hallucinations doesn't explain what you did to me," Edward said haughtily.

"When the breakout happened, I ran into a guard in the hall. He tried to stop me but I overpowered him. I grabbed his head to slam it into the wall and I...I saw what I can only describe as a memory. I saw it through his eyes like I was him. It was the same thing that just happened now." She glanced over at him, deciding then not to tell him that this wasn't the first time this had happened. The first time he must've still been asleep and unable to feel...whatever he felt. "The man that I saw...Was he your father?" Edward looked at once disgusted and uncomfortable as he drew his knees up to his chest.

"You're not the only one who had a poor relationship with a parent," he said. "And I'd rather not go down memory lane, if you don't mind. Though I suppose I don't really have to tell you anything if you can just go spelunking in my brain whenever you want." The accusation stung.

"I didn't do that intentionally!" she said. "I don't even know _how_ I do it, or why! The last thing I want to do is go digging around in your head. Trust me, I have enough bad memories to last me a lifetime. I don't need anyone else's." She could almost see the light bulb go off in his head.

"You said this started after Jonathan dosed you with fear toxin?" he asked. He tapped a finger to his chin as he thought. "Jon did say he intentionally gave you a rather large dose-"

"That's something you just casually discussed?" Salem interrupted.

"-and he had very little idea of how you would react," Edward finished, obviously annoyed at the interruption. "He's never had the opportunity to experiment on metahumans before. Pamela is immune to toxins and Killer Croc isn't exactly a model patient. I wonder..." He studied her like a chart of data as he thought.

"Your metagene manifests not as a physical mutation but a mutation of your brain's capabilities," he said. "Perhaps the psychological strain of the toxin prompted the change."

"I'm not a lab rat for Jonathan Crane to experiment on," Salem growled, angrily tamping out the cigarette in the ashtray. "And I'd appreciate it if you stopped staring at me like a science experiment too."

"Science experiment? Pah!" he said. "You are something far greater than that. You're a puzzle, my dear, and one that keeps evolving." He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "Those are my favorite kind, you know. They're not so easy to solve." She reached up to touch the side of his face but hesitated. She swallowed hard before she let her skin touch his. Nothing happened.

"If it's any consolation," she said, "I think you're a very smart man." That got a weak smile out of him.

"One of your memories flashed across my mind as well," he said. Salem was afraid of that.

"Which one?" she asked, dreading the answer. Which one of her scars did he see? The flogging? The branding?

"You were on the phone," he said, pulling away from her. "James, was it? was on the other line. He was crying. He said Elise committed suicide. Overdosed on Tylenol and alcohol." If he'd hit her it would've been less than a blow. Of all the memories to see, why did he have to see the one she'd tried to bury the deepest?

"Elise was the first person I let myself love," she said. To her, her voice sounded very far away. "Her parents...They didn't approve of her 'lifestyle' as they called it. They sent her to some reconditioning camp to _fix_ her. There was nothing to fix." She began to scratch at the scars on the back of her hand, the feeling of her nails raking across the dead flesh oddly soothing.

"When James told me what happened, it was the worst day of my life," she continued. "From that moment on, I don't think I've let myself feel anything other than rage. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel other emotions. No one could understand why I am what I am. Even Elise couldn't comprehend the murderous anger festering in me, what could possibly drive me to murder my own mother." She glanced over at Edward. "But I think you do. Don't you?"

Before Edward could answer there was a meaty _thwump_ against the door to her bedroom. Both of them glanced at one another before Salem slowly rose to her feet, the sheets falling away from her. She reached out a hand and one of her pistols flew across the room into her grasp. With her other hand she slowly unlocked the door and threw it open, only to see an empty stairwell. She was then hit with an overpowering aroma that made her stomach turn. She glance down and nearly gagged.

"Jesus Christ," she breathed, pressing the back of her hand against her nose. The disheveled remains of one of the local alley cats was sprawled over the top two steps, what was left of its blood spilling out from its slit throat. Stapled to the matted orange fur was a note:

_Think you can steal from me, bitch? Come to the docks ALONE or else your bartender ends up like this cat._

"Roman wouldn't know subtlety if it slapped him," Edward remarked dryly from behind her as he peered over her shoulder. "I suppose it's a better warning than a severed horse's head." Salem turned and stalked back into the room, gathering her clothes off of the floor.

"He has Jerry," she said as she began to pull her clothing on piece by piece. "I'll decorate the docks with the contents of his head." Edward meanwhile climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets back over him. He reached over and picked up the copy of _Naked Lunch_ on her bedside table and leafed through it.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, but have you considered other options?" he asked, picking up his rounded spectacles and turning to the first page. "Roman might be an idiot, but he's a well-armed idiot." Salem held out both hands and she caught both pistols as they whirred towards her.

"Jerry's not so bright, but he's been good to me," she said, shoving them into her shoulder holsters. "I won't just leave him to die."

"Well, as exciting as this all is, I don't think I'll be joining you," he said, peering over the top of his glasses at her. "I have no interest in quarreling with Roman, and I trust you'll be able to handle yourself. Please try not to get shot, I'm not very good at stitching up other people. That was always Jon's specialty." Salem flopped down onto the edge of the mattress and began pulling her boots on. She glanced down at the book.

"Did you lose my place?" she said. Edward rolled his eyes.

"You were on page 75," he replied, as if it were common knowledge. "I won't forget."

"Will you be here when I get back?" she asked, pulling the other boot on.

"So long as you don't dally," he said, turning the page. "Though I'm afraid our tryst can't be long-winded. There's been...a development."

"A development?"

"Joker is planning something," Edward said, looking up at her. "I believe he's calling it a 'party.' I have preparations to make." Salem scowled.

"A party, huh?" she asked. "I thought you and Joker didn't get along."

"Joker is an idiot," he said, going back to his reading. "But any opportunity to toy with Batman is one that I'll take. He thinks he's so much better than me -well, I'll show him!" Salem leaned over and kissed Edward on the cheek before rising in a flurry of red trench coat.

"Don't wait up, dear," she called jokingly. The door closed on Edward's noise of disgust.


End file.
